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HUBERT  AND  ELLEN. 


WITH 


OTHER    POEMS. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  HARP...... BILLOWY  WATER......THE  PLUNDERER'S  GRAVE..... 

THE  TEAR-DROr......THE  BILLOW. 


BY 


LUCIUS  M.  SARGENT. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHESTER  STEBBINS. 

1813. 


DISTRICT  OF  MASSACHUSETTS,  TO  WIT : 

District  Clerk's  Qffla. 

BE  it  remembered,  that  on  the  seventh  day  of  November,  A.  D.  1812,  and  in  the 
thirty-seventh  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States  of  America,  Clutter  Stebbins, 
of  the  said  District,  has  deposited  in  this  Office  the  Title  of  a  Book,  the  Right  whereof  he 
claims  as  Proprietor,  in  the  \vordsfolluwing,  to  tait .— "  HUBERT  AND  ELLEN.  With 
other  Poems.  The  Trial  of  the  Harp....Billowy  Water....The  Plunderer's  Grave.. ..The 
Tear  Drop.... The  Billow.  By  Lucius  M.  Sargent*" 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  oi  the  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled,  "An  Act  for  the 
Encouragement  of  Learning,  by  securing  the  Copies  of  Maps,  Cliarts  and  Books,  to  the  Au 
thors  and  Proprietors  of  such  Copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned  ;"  and  also  to  an 
Act  entitled,"  An  Act  supplementary  to  an  Act,  entitled,  An  Act  for  the  Encouragement  of 
Learning,  by  securing  tile  Copies  of  Maps,  Charts  and  Books,  to  the  Authors  and  Proprie- 
lors  of  such  Copies  during  the  times  therein  Mentioned  ;  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof 
ru  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving  and  etching  historical,  and  other  prints." 

WM.  S.  SHAW, 
Clerk  af  the  District  of  Massachuxtts. 


nro-fi  Gu 


DEDICATION. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BROTHER. 


SHADE  of  my  brother  dear ! 
Oft,  at  the  silent  close  of  summer  day. 

Mem'ry  does  bring  thee  near ; 
And  often  have  I  sought  that  hour,  to  pay 

The  tribute  of  my  tear. 

For,  if  time's  various  tide  does  roll 
One  hour,  which,  o'er  thy  gentle  soul, 
Could  reign,  with  more  of  magick  pow'r, 

Than  ev'ry  hour  beside, 
It  was  that  sweet,  that  musing  hour 

Of  summer's  eventide. 


M890752 


e 


Not  emulous,  our  friendly  skiffs  pursu'd 
The  track  of  life,  down  childhood's  bubbling  tide ; 
And  pass'd  the  flood  of  boyhood,  wild  and  rude, 
Like  partners  in  the  voyage,  side  by  side ; 
But,  scarce  the  rapids  of  our  youth  were  pass'd, 
Scarce  op'd  before  us  manhood's  ocean  wide, 
Ere  thy  fair  vessel  yielded  to  the  blast. 

Though  Heav'n  to  both  did  equal  love  impart, 
Yet  greater  gifts  were  thine,  and  happier  doom. 
A  riper  genius,  and  a  purer  heart, 
A  life  more  virtuous,  and  an  earlier  tomb. 

Oft  gentle  mem'ry's  hand  pourtrays 
A  thousand  scenes  of  early  days  ; 
Of  boyhood's  walks,  and  shady  bow'rs  ; 
And  youthful  sports,  and  satchel'd  hours  ; 
And  task  forgot,  and  winter  night. 
Wasted  o'er  tale  and  legend  light, 


Till  ev'ry  blast,  we  chanc'd  to  hear, 
Did  seem  to  bring  the  giant  near. 

Full  oft  a  tear-drop  mem'ry  borrows, 
When,  thus  her  magick  hand  displays 
Such  simple  scenes  of  former  days  ; 

And  yet  that  tear-drop  is  not  sorrow's  : 
For  tears,  that  flow  at  sorrow's  call, 
Are  always  felt,  before  they  fall. 
But  here,  when  mem'ry  brings  to  view 
Dear  early  scenes,  for  ever  gone, 
The  heart  scarce  feels  how  strong,  how  true 
The  lines  by  mem'ry's  hand  are  drawn, 
Before,  unknown,  the  tear  does  part, 
In  tribute  fair  to  mem'ry's  art. 
And  scarce  it  parts,  from  nature's  store, 
Before  it  steals  the  eyelid  o'er ; 
And  scarce  an  instant  there  does  stand, 
Before  it  trembles  on  the  hand. 
2 


Thy  meteor  lamp  of  poesy, 
That  shone  with  gaiiish  ray, 

Did  lure  my  heart  to  follow  thee, 
Mid  fancy's  airy  way. 

There  have  I  pass'd  my  happiest  hours, 

Entwining  fancy's  fairy  flow'rs. 

And  thus  I  now  have  wreath'd  for  thee 

These  simple  flow'rs,  in  garland  wild, 

This  chaplet  of  my  poesy; 

For  thou  wert  fancy's  dearest  child 

Brother  !  to  thee,  if  it  were  given, 
To  leave  awhile  thy  rest  in  Heaven  ; 
If  thou  couldst  weep,  thy  gentle  tear 
Would  steal,  of  Hubert's  fate  to  hear  ; 
And  pity  sure  would  dim  thine  eye, 
At  Ellen's  love  and  constancy. 
For  ne'er  a  theme  thy  heart  could  move, 
Like  gentle  woman's  constant  love. 


And  sure  to  thee  did  Heav'n  impart 
No  fickle  no  inconstant  heart. 

Dear  Spirit !  I  have  heard  thee  say, 
"  If  cruel  fate  should  hear  away 
Her,  who  alone  my  heart  can  sway, 
Oh  !  could  that  heart  again  he  gay  ? 
And  could  I  ever,  ever  hear 
To  part  this  braid  of  auburn  hair  ? 
Though  cold  her  little  hands,  that  made 
And  fasten'd  here  this  auburn  braid, 
Her  heart,  in  Heav'n,  would  love  me  still ! 
And  so,  on  earth,  my  heart  should  prove 
Its  tender  and  its  lasting  love  ; 
Until,  with  me,  this  little  braid, 
Beside  her,  in  the  grave,  were  laid. 
For,  when  in  death  my  limbs  grew  chill, 
Sure,  none  could  be  of  heart  unkind, 
Sure,  none,  to  constant  love  so  blind, 


8 

Whose  cruel  hand  would  rudely  tear 
Away  this  braid  of  auburn  hair !".... 

Shade  of  my  brother  dear  ! 
Oh  !  if  the  chaplet,  I  have  twin'd, 
Be  not  unworthy  bard  like  thee, 

Then  let  me  dream  thee  near ; 
And,  round  thy  brows,  in  fancy,  bind 
These  wild  flow'rs  of  my  poesy  ! 

And,  if  the  world  severe 
Do  scorn  my  flow'rets,  till  they  fade, 
And  blast  the  garland  I  have  made  ; 
Yet  still  to  thee,  in  thought,  my  soul 
Shall  rise,  above  the  world's  control. 
And  oft,  at  close  of  summer  day, 
My  heart  shall  fondly  seek  to  pay 

The  tribute  of  its  tear. 


HUBERT  AND  ELLEN. 


HUBERT  AND  ELLEN. 


THIS  poem  commences  with  the  address  of  an  old  man  to  a  stranger,  who  is  supposed  to  be  gazing 

at  a  maiiiack,  reclining  upon  a  grave,  near  which  the  old  man  is  standing. 


WANDERER,  stay ! 
If  your  gentle  heart  would  know 
Who,  beneath  the  lonely  willow, 
Makes  the  simple  stone  his  pillow, 
And  turns,  by  fits,  from  deepest  wo, 
To  laughter  gay. 

Wand'rer,  though,  upon  his  brow, 
Sad  despair,  and  sorrow  now, 


12 

And  fitful  grief,  and  laughter  wild 
Mark  him  distraction's  dearest  child ; 
And  hair  and  beard,  uncouth  and  long. 
Have  done  his  manly  features  wrong ; 
Yet  ev'ry  deepen'd  furrow  there 
Is  less  the  mark  of  age  than  care  : 
And  oft  he  holds  his  visage  high, 
And  oft  his  dark  and  fever'd  eye 
The  quick'ning  fire  of  youth  betrays. 
And  lofty  glance  of  better  days. 

But  chance  you  would  not  deign  to  hear 

Sad  pity's  gentle  tale  ; 
For  here  no  knight,  with  targe  and  speai 

Rides,  clad  in  battle  mail. 
Nor  lady  bright,  of  lu'gh  degree, 

Is  seen  in  stately  tow'r ; 
Nor  lordly  suitor  bows  the  knee 
To  courtly  damsel,  fair  and  free, 

Well  met,  in  sylvan  bow'r. 


13 

And  chance  to  you  the  world  is  deal*, 
So  dear,  you  have  no  hour  for  sorrow ; 
To  heave  a  sigh,  to  shed  a  tear, 

For  others'  wo : 

And,  if  your  thoughts  are  all  for  morrow, 
For  worldly  good,  for  worldly  gear, 
'Twere  shame,  that  you  the  tale  should  hear ; 
Go,  wand'rer,  go.... 

Yet  stay,  and  first  forgive  the  wrong, 

Of  speech  unkind  and  sland'rous  tongue  ; 

For  pride  is  high,  upon  your  cheek. 

The  dew  is  in  your  eye, 
To  hear  poor  crazy  Hubert  shriek, 

With  shrill  and  piercing  cry. 

And  now  your  tears  more  freely  pour, 
While,  gazing  wildly  o'er  the  stone, 
He  marks  the  letters,  one  by  one, 

And  counts  them  slowly  o'er  and  o'er  j 
4 


And  laughs,  by  fits,  and  cries. 
And  mutters  to  himself  alone, 
"  Here  little  Ellen  lies." 

Ah  !  gentle  wand'rer,  'tis  a  dreary  sight, 
When  all  the  world  is  hush'd  in  stillest  night, 
To  see  poor  Hubert  steal  to  Ellen's  grave  ; 
And  read  the  tablet,  by  the  moon's  pale  light, 
And  utter  senseless  pray'r,  and  wildly  rave, 
And  wring  his  hands,  and  shriek  with  piercing  cry. 
And  start,  to  hear  the  owlet's  shrill  reply. 

Five  summers  now  have  pass'd  away, 
Since  Ellen  slept,  beneath  the  willow  ; 
Five  summers  now  have  shed  their  ray, 
Since  wretched  Hubert,  night  and  day, 
Has  made  the  simple  stone  his  pillow ; 
Reckless  of  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold. 
And  pitying  neighbours  oft  the  tale  have  told. 


15 

How,  when  the  maniack's  lite  to  save, 
They  sought  the  wretch,  at  Ellen's  grave, 
They  found  him,  on  the  tablet  low. 
Brushing  away  the  falling  snow. 

Some  story  of  the  hapless  pair 
Is  told,  by  ev'ry  villager  ; 
Enough  to  raise  the  childish  fear, 
The  boorish  laugh,  the  thoughtless  jeer, 
And  gentle  maiden's  pitying  tear. 
And  oft  'tis  told,  by  tattling  dame, 
When  Hubert  to  the  village  came, 
And  when  the  lovely  Ellen  died, 
Who  lies,  upon  the  willow's  side  ; 
And  how  he  plac'd  the  tablet  stone, 
O'er  Ellen's  grave,  with  tender  care  ; 
And  how  Ms  heart  would  swell, 
When  oft  he  sought  the  spot  alone, 
And  scatter'd  rose  and  lily  there. 
And  how,  when  sorrow  turn'd  his  brain, 


16 

He  lost  Ms  gallant  air  and  mien. 
And  many  other  tales  beside, 
Of  Hubert  and  bis  hapless  bride, 
The  village  dame  will  tell. 

And  some  there  are, 
Who  say,  that  Hubert,  on  the  even,' 
Close  by  her  bed,  when  Ellen  died, 
Knelt  down,  and,  weeping  at  her  side, 

Mutter' d  short  pray'r ; 
So  low,  it  scarcely  could  be  heard ; 
But  here  and  there  a  louder  word 

Was  of  himself,  and  crimes,  and  Heaven, 

Of  Ellen,  and  of  sins  forgiven. 
And  how,  at  last,  in  whisper  small, 
Ellen,  with  tears,  forgave  liiin  all. 

But  it  has  never  been  denied, 

That,  like  a  lover  true, 
For  days  and  nights,  at  Ellen's  side, 


17 


Hubert  gaz'd  o'er  her  features  pale ; 
And,  when  her  spirits  seem'd  to  fail, 

Her  hand  more  closely  drew  ; 
And,  when,  at  last,  poor  Ellen  died, 
Still  Hubert  gaz'd,  and  faintly  sighed, 
Yet  from  his  eye  no  tear  did  flow  ; 
But,  on  his  wan  and  haggard  brow, 
There  was  so  strange  and  wild  a  stare, 
That  none  a  second  look  could  bear. 

But  the  sad  story,  save  to  me, 
Is  veil'd,  in  deepest  mystery. 

Poor,  crazy  Hubert  knows  me  not ! 
And,  by  that  wild  unconscious  gaze, 
He  tells  me  not  of  former  days  ; 
]STor  aught  is  of  remembrance  there  : 
The  frantick  look,  the  vacant  stare 
Show,  that  my  features  are  forgot. 
5 


18 

Yet,  gentle  wand'rer,  well  I  know, 
Tliis  wretch,  who  looks  so  mean  and  low, 
Before  his  senses  fail'd  him  aught, 
Ne'er  turn'd  his  hack,  on  friend  or  foe. 
And,  though  it  strange  may  seem  to  thee, 
Ne'er  liv'd  more  gallant  youth  than  he, 
To  wield  a  sword,  to  rein  a  steed, 
In  bold  assault,  or  gentle  deed. 
A  heart  more  kind,  a  hand  more  free 
Ne'er  op'd,  in  friendship's  need. 

He  was  my  friend but,  stranger,  say, 

Why  gaze,  upon  my  locks  of  grey, 
My  humble  garb,  my  lowly  mien, 
And  oaken  staff,  on  which  I  lean  ? 
Though  I  am  old,  I  cannot  brook 
That  curious  glance  and  doubting  look. 
I  said,  that  Hubert  was  my  friend. 
But  never  did  my  heart  intend, 


i9 

That  I  was  gallant  Hubert's  peer, 
When  his  were  honours,  wealth,  and  gear. 
No,  stranger,  wrong  me  not  in  thought. 
Nor  will  old  Edwy  tell  you  aught, 
That  is  in  tittle  less  sincere, 

Than  this  is  crazy  Hubert  here 

But  my  poor  knees  are  weak  and  old, 
Beneath  the  neighb'ring  elm,  'twere  meet, 
To  seek  the  cool  sequester'd  seat, 
Where  better  may  the  tale  be  told 

Hubert  was  once  as  dear  to  me, 
As  child,  upon  a  father's  knee ; 
For,  many  a  long  and  tedious  year, 

Beyond  the  waters  wild, 
I  serv'd  his  cruel  sire,  with  fear, 

And  learn'd  to  love  the  child. 

And,  when  to  manly  years  he  came, 
My  love  for  Hubert  was  the  same. 


20 

And,  when,  because  he  long  withstood 
His  father's  will,  nor  gave  his  hand, 
Against  his  heart,  for  lady's  land, 
His  cruel  sire,  in  stubborn  mood, 
On  hapless  Hubert  clos'd  his  door, 
And  robb'd  of  all  his  hopes  ;  be  sure, 
Old  Edwy's  heart  could  ill  endure 
Such  cruel  fate,  but  lov'd  him  more. 
It  was  an  heavy  time  indeed, 

Such  sad  mishap  to  know; 
For  then  his  wretched  heart  did  bleed, 

For  hapless  Ellen's  wo  : 
And  sorrow  clouded  o'er  his  brow, 
And  sad  repentant  tears  did  flow. 

» 

For,  though  he  was  as  fair,  and  free, 
And  kind,  as  gallant  youth  could  be, 
In  all  beside,  and  ne'er  delay'd 
His  hand,  when  pity  claim'd  liis  aid  ; 
Yet,  on  his  soul,  a  fatal  blot 


31 

Is  deeply  dy'd,  so  dark  a  stain 

Shall  long,  with  Hubert's  name,  remain. 

When  wretched  Ellen  is  forgot : 

Recorded,  in  the  page  of  Heaven, 

Never,  perhaps,  to  he  forgiven. 

Ah  !  wand'rer,  it  did  strangely  seem, 
That  all  his  senses  wildly  ran, 
When  tender  maiden  was  his  theme. 
Then  Hubert  seem'd  an  alter'd  man  ; 
Light  was  his  mood,  as  morning  dream. 
High  his  heart  could  beat,  in  pleasure, 
Careless  of  the  tears  of  morrow  ; 
Lightly  could  he  seize  the  treasure, 
Reckless  of  a  maiden's  sorrow. 

And  oft,  upon  the  modest  eye, 
Hubert  would  bend  his  eye  of  blue, 
And  talk  of  love,  and  seem  so  true, 

In  ev'ry  word,  in  ev'ry  sigh  ; 
6 


22 

That  simple  maid  could  never  dream, 

That  Hubert  false  would  prove. 
And,  if,  upon  his  features  fair, 
She  look'd,  for  wily  falsehood  there, 
Such  glance  the  maiden  well  might  rue, 
On  face,  that  heam'd  so  fair  and  true  f 
Where  ev'ry  gentle  look  did  seem 
To  tell,  of  naught  hut  love. 

For,  though  his  hold  and  piercing  eyer 
And  gallant  form,  and  bearing  high, 
And  haughty  look,  and  dark'ning  glance, 
That  stay'd  half  way  the  rude  advance, 
Made  those,  who  knew  him  not,  conclude, 
That  love  was  ne'er  for  Hubert's  mood  ; 
Yet  none  more  suply  bow'd  the  knee, 

And  none  could  heave  more  tender  sigh. 

o    < 

And  none  more  kindly  glanc'd  an  eye, 
On  gentle  lady  fair,  than  he. 


23 

0 

Then  simple  maid  did  sure  believe, 
That  Hubert's  smile  could  ne'er  deceive  ; 
Till,  in  some  sad  and  lone  retreat, 
With  tears,  and  sighs,  and  wan  despair. 
And  all  but  love  and  Hubert  there, 
The  wretch  would  seek  sequester'd  seat, 
And  mourn,  unheard,  her  sorrows  o'er : 
Till  tears,  at  length,  would  cease  to  flow, 
And  sighs  would  yield  to  silent  wo  ; 
And  then,  with  fainting  look  and  wild, 
Clasp  to  her  breast  her  naked  child, 
And  close  her  eyes,  to  weep  no  more.... 

Time  fast  has  flown,  since  Ellen  smil'd, 
Where,  in  a  vale,  beside  the  wood, 
Old  Edgar's  lonely  cottage  stood ; 
Poor,  widow'd  Mary's  only  child. 
For  Edgar  never  liv'd  to  know 
Of  Ellen's  hapless  doom  ; 
And,  ere  the  days  of  Ellen's  wo, 


Thrice  did  the  summer  flow'ret  grow, 
And  thrice  cold  winter's  blast  did  blow, 
On  Edgar's  lowly  tomb. 

Amid  the  valley  lone, 
Where  foot  of  mortal  seldom  came, 
Liv'd  Ellen  and  the  aged  dame, 

In  solitude,  unknown. 
And,  when  old  Edgar  droop'd  and  died, 
Poor  Mary's  wants  were  still  supplied, 

By  tender  Ellen's  care. 

At  early  dawn,  her  little  feet 
The  dew,  from  off  the  pathw  ay,  heat, 
And  water,  from  the  brook,  she  drew  : 
And  oft  she  pluck'd  the  flow'r,  that  grew, 

Upon  the  margin  fair  ; 
And,  still  while  poor  old  Mary  slept, 
Smiling,  towards  her  pillow  crept, 

And  gently  plac'd  it  there. 


25 

Then  silent  would  she  watch,  the  while, 
Her  fond  surprise  and  wak'ning  smile. 

Next,  with  kind  look  and  willing  haste, 
She  hrought  her  mother's  slight  repast. 
Then,  o'er  her  neck,  her  kerchief  threw  ; 
Full  well  the  signal  Carlo  knew, 
And,  to  the  door,  impatient  flew. 

Oft  did  he  cast  alternate  look, 
From  Ellen,  to  the  little  nook, 
"Where  high  the  hirchen  basket  hung, 
Ere,  from  its  place,  she  gaily  took, 
And  careless,  on  her  finger,  swung. 

And,  o'er  her  auhurn  gay, 
Before  she  had  her  gipsy  tied, 
That  did,  at  best,  hut  poorly  hide 
Her  faiiy  face  and  floating  pride ; 

7 


86 

His  frequent  bark  Avould  loudly  chide 
Her  ling'ring  step's  delay. 

Scarce,  on  the  string,  she  plac'd  her  hand. 
Ere  Carlo  would  in  silence  stand, 
With  forward  head,  and  upward  ear. 
The  sound  of  lifting  latch  to  hear  ; 
And  hody  hack,  and  foot  hefore, 
And  eye,  intent,  upon  the  door. 
And  Ellen  scarce  the  hobhin  drew. 
Ere,  o'er  the  threshold.  Carlo  flew, 
And  swiftly  shot  along  the  lawn, 
AVith  eagle's  speed ;  nor  had  she  more 
Than  dropp'd  the  latch,  and  clos'd  the  door. 
Ere  Carlo  down  the  hill  had  gone. 
And,  scarce  she  left  the  threshold  stone. 
Ere  he  had  swam  the  brook  below, 
And  climb'd  the  cliff,  and,  on  its  brow, 
Paus'd,  and  look'd  back,  on  Ellen's  way. 


27 

Shook,  from  his  locks,  the  water  spray, 
And  bark'd  again,  to  chide  delay. 

And,  when,  with  lily  foot,  unshod, 
Across  the  shallow  brook,  she  trod, 
Again  he  sped,  for  then  he  knew 
The  path,  that  Ellen  would  pursue. 
And,  when  she  gain'd  the  ridge's  height. 
Carlo  was  fairly  out  of  sight. 

And  thus,  with  health  and  sweet  content, 
Fair  Ellen  pass'd  her  early  hours, 
Nor  yet  e'er  op'd  her  eyes,  on  sorrow  ; 
Save  once,  hut  long  those  tears  had  dried  ; 
'Twas,  when  her  father,  Edgar,  died. 

And  thus,  with  basket  at  her  side, 

Carlo  and  little  Ellen  went, 

In  search  of  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flow'rs  ; 


S8 

And,  homeward,  with  the  little  store, 
At  even?  sought  the  cottage  door. 
Then,  to  the  village,  on  the  morrow, 
Carlo  and  little  Ellen  came, 
And  sold  them,  to  the  village  dame. 

With  slower  step,  then  Carlo  trod, 
And  proudly  sought  the  village  road  ; 
For  well  he  constru'd,  what  did  mean 
The  decent  plaid  and  honnet  green. 

It  was  a  pleasant  tiling,  to  see 
Ellen,  at  even,  merrily, 
When  length'ning  shadows,  o'er  the  lea, 
Call'd  home  the  ploughman  wearily  ; 
Tripping,  with  lightsome  steps,  along, 
While,  half  untied,  her  bonnet  hung  j 
And  Carlo,  marching  close  before, 
With  lifted  head,  the  basket  bore. 


29 

And  truly  it  was  fair,  to  see 
Old  Mary's  kind  and  greeting  smile, 
That  more  than  paid  for  Ellen's  toil. 
And,  when  her  little  gains  she  show'd, 
And  laid  upon  her  mother's  knee, 
And  smiling,  said,  "  'tis  all  for  thee  ;" 
The  tear,  down  Mary's  cheek,  that  flow'd, 
To  Ellen's  heart  was  far  more  dear, 
Than  worlds  of  wealth  and  costly  gear. 

Oft  have  I  seen  fair  Ellen  come, 
With  Carlo,  to  the  cottage  home  ; 
For  oft  did  Hubert  speed  me  there. 
And  Mary  oft  would  turn  aside, 
And  wipe  away  the  trickling  tear, 
Then  would  she  say,  that  I  must  bear 
Kind  thanks,  for  gentle  Hubert's  cheer ; 
And  tell  him,  that,  at  eventide, 
Ellen,  her  little  bed  beside, 

Would  clasp  her  hands,  for  him,  in  pray'r  ; 

8 


30 

While  Ellen,  with  a  smile,  replied 
To  all  his  greeting  fair. 

Ah !  nothing  did  I  know,  of  all, 
That  little  Ellen  would  befall. 
For,  when,  with  kindly  seeming  care, 
Hubert  would  often  send  me  there, 
His  words  were  all  so  mild  and  fair, 
That,  in  his  look,  I  could  not  read 
Of  aught,  but  poor,  old  Mary's  need. 

And,  when  at  first,  he  told  the  tale. 
Of  Mary's  cottage,  in  the  vale, 
He  pass'd  the  matter  lightly  o'er ; 
How,  in  the  glade,  some  days  before. 
Fatigu'd,  with  vain  pursuit  of  game, 
He  haply  to  the  cottage  came. 
Then  did  he  kindly  bid  me  go, 
Of  poor,  old  Mary's  health  to  know  j 
And,  if  I  saw  a  maiden  there. 


31 

With  hazel  eye  and  auburn  hair, 
From  him,  to  speak  the  damsel  fair. 

Yet,  in  his  face,  that  beam'd,  the  while, 
Was  nought,  hut  pity's  gentle  smile. 

Thus  time  had  swiftly  pass'd  away, 
Since  first  my  feet,  at  close  of  day. 
/Rested,  in  Mary's  humble  vale  ; 
And  after,  oft,  at  even,  trod, 
Along  the  wonted  village  road, 

And  down  the  lonely  dale  j 
Whene'er,  in  seeming  pity's  need, 
Hubert  would  bid  me  thither  speed. 

At  length,  less  eager  Hubert  seem'd, 
Of  poor,  old  Mary's  weal  to  know  ; 
And  scarce,  at  last,  he  lent  an  ear, 
Of  all  her  gentle  speech  to  hear. 
And,  when  I  told  of  Mary's  tear, 


No  smile,  upon  his  face,  there  beam'd, 
But  more  of  sadness  rested  there. 

And,  when,  as  Mary  hade  me  hear, 

I  said,  that  oft,  at  eventide, 

Ellen,  her  little  hed  heside, 

Would  clasp  her  hands,  for  him,  in  pray'r 

There  came  a  cloud,  upon  his  brow, 

Bursting,  in  drops  of  heaviest  wo. 

I  marvell'd  much,  hut  understood 

No  cause,  for  Hubert's  changing  mood. 

Yet  more  he  neter  hade  me  go, 

To  Mary's  humble  cot ; 
And  long  neglect  did  plainly  show. 
That  poor,  old  Mary  was  forgot. 

And,  when but,  stranger,  gently  bear 

The  weakness  of  an  old  man's  tear : 

It  is  the  tribute,  mem'ry  pays, 

To  scenes  of  youth  and  happier  days. 


33 

Gentle  stranger,  have  you  never, 
Musing,  upon  your  lonely  pillow, 
Given  a  sweet,  a  silent  hour, 
To  mem'ry  dear  ? 
Whose  living  wand,  with  magick  pow'r, 

Can  hring  so  near 
Your  native  land,  heyond  the  billow ; 

And  show  so  clear 

Dear  early  scenes,  that  time  would  sever ; 
And  paint  the  friend,  now  sunk  forever, 

"With  hand  so  true, 

That  long  lost  friend,  and  distant  home, 
And  scenes  of  youth  before  you  come, 
In  present  view  ? 

If  such  an  hour  you  never  knew, 
Ah,  then  indeed  you  ne'er  can  know, 
Why,  down  my  cheek,  this  tear  does  flow. 
When,  on  my  mem'ry  rushing,  come 
9 


34 

Dear  thoughts  of  Mary's  humhle  home. 
The  peaceful  look,  the  greeting  smile, 
The  brook,  and  hill,  and  hawthorn  green, 
That  grew,  beside  the  lowly  cell, 
And  Ellen's  gentle  voice,  and  mien 
My  poor  old  heart  with  sorrow  swell, 
And  of  its  kindest  tears  beguile. 

Oh !  could  I  see  that  smile  once  more, 
And  Ellen,  at  the  cottage  door, 
And  crazy  Hubert's  madness  o'er  ; 
Old  Edwy  then  would  gladly  die, 
While  tears  bedew'd  his  closing  eye 

Stranger,  forgive  me  for  the  wrong, 
My  heart  has  been  indulg'd  too  long. 

But  now  my  tears  are  o'er  ; 
And  now  my  voice  again  is  strong. 

And  I  will  tell  you  more. 


I  said,  that  Hubert  ne'er  again 

Spake  more,  of  Mary's  humble  cot. 

Yet  did  my  fondness  still  remain  ; 

For,  I  had  been  so  often  there, 

Ere  the  chill  blast  and  winter  wild 

Had  laid  the  little  woodland  bare, 

That  I  had  often  wish'd  to  know, 

How  look'd  the  hawthorn,  'neath  the  snow. 

And  Ellen  seem'd  to  me  a  child, 

For  she  was  very  kind  to  me, 

And  oft  she  sat,  upon  my  knee  ; 

And  then  her  looks  were  all  so  mild, 

When,  on  my  poor  old  face,  she  smil'd. 

Yet  the  slight  liint  did  always  fail, 
Which  oft  I  tried,  on  Hubert's  ear  ; 
Thinking  his  kind  returning  care 
Again  would  bid  me  seek  the  vale. 
And  when,  at  last,  my  words  were  bold, 
Of  long  neglect,  and  winter's  cold, 


36 

And  Mary,  feeble,  poor,  and  old : 
No  pleasure  in  his  eye  did  seem, 
And  soon  he  sought  for  lighter  theme  : 
And  briskly  turn'd  my  suit  away, 
Bidding  me  wait  some  future  day. 

At  length,  my  feet,  unbidden,  trod 
Once  more,  toward  the  little  wood, 
"Where  Mary's  simple  cottage  stood. 
Musing,  along  the  lonely  road, 
On  Hubert's  strange  and  alter'd  mood. 

And,  though  'twere  marvel  all  to  me, 
And  long  neglect,  and  alter'd  look, 
And  ear,  unwilling,  when  I  spoke 
Of  Mary,  argu'd  mystery  ; 
Yet,  if  my  wav'ring  light  surmise 
Did  rest,  on  Ellen's  hazel  eyes, 
And  lovely  face,  and  auburn  hair, 
It  scarce  an  instant  rested  there. 


37 

As  weary  falcon  rests  his  feet, 
On  branch,  too  feeble  for  his  weight ; 
And,  scarcely  cow'rs  his  wing  to  light, 
Ere  he  again  has  ta'en  his  flight. 

Full  in  my  mind,  came  ev'ry  word, 
That  Hubert  said  of  Mary's  need  ; 
Mention  of  Ellen,  seldom  heard  ; 
And  fresh  his  smile  of  pity  came  ; 
And  his  kind  heart  and  gen'rous  deed 
Did  put  my  sland'rous  thought  to  shame. 

Thus  did  my  thoughts  beguile  the  way, 
Till  deep'ning  shades  of  ev'ning  grey 
Had  fled,  before  the  gloom  of  night. 
And,  distant  now,  the  glimm'ring  ray, 

From  Mary's  cottage,  shone  ; 
It  cheer'd  my  heart,  my  steps  more  light 

Pass'd  o'er  the  valley  lone  ; 
10 


38 

And  now  they  climb'd  the  little  hill. 
And  gain'd  the  threshold  stone.... 

My  heart  misgave  ;  that  sudden  chill, 
That  ran  my  brow  so  swiftly  o'er, 
When  first  I  op'd  the  cottage  door, 
Did  seem  the  harbinger  of  wo. 
And  Carlo,  on  the  cottage  floor, 
Crouching,  in  seeming  sorrow,  low, 
Whose  eager  bark  was  wont  before 
To  charge  me  briskly,  at  the  door, 
Did  half  confirm  my  fears  of  ill. 

With  rapid  turn,  my  eyes  survey'd 
The  cottage  o'er,  and  then,  with  care, 
Search'd  ev'ry  nook  for  Ellen  round  j 
Scarce  glance  at  Mary  once  they  made. 
Expectant,  still  my  willing  ear 
Listen'd,  the  welcome  voice  to  hear. 


39 

In  vain,  I  waited  for  the  sound, 
In  vain,  I  sought  for  Ellen  there. 

And  when,  with  eager  glance,  at  first, 
On  Mary's  eyes,  my  own  were  bent, 
Her  look  my  very  heart  did  hurst, 
For  pity,  to  my  soul  it  went. 
On  face  of  flesh  and  blood,  I  ween, 
Such  look  before  was  never  seen. 

Though  I  have  mark'd  the  sorrow  flow, 
Down  the  pale  cheek  of  sad  dismay ; 
Such  calm  despair,  such  silent  wo, 
As  reign'd,  o'er  ev'ry  feature  then, 
Though,  in  my  mind,  I  see  it  now, 
Sure  I  shall  never  see  agen, 
In  mortal  sight,  on  mortal  brow. 
Such  piteous  look  will  surely  go, 
With  mem'ry,  to  my  dying  day  ; 
For  it  did  seem,  in  sorrow's  need, 


40 

As  if  her  very  soul  would  part. 
Such  look  would  tame  the  blackest  heart. 
That  ever  thought  revengeful  deed  ; 
'Twould  make  the  wretch  his  crimes  repent 
'Twould  blind  the  murd'rer's  dark'ning  eye, 
In  purpose  bent,  and  make  the  brand 
Fall  sudden,  from  his  nerveless  hand. 
'Twould  make  the  robber's  heart  relent ; 
And  urge  the  miser's  pitying  sigh. 

Half  utter'd  was  the  word,  that  hung, 
At  first,  upon  my  trembling  tongue  ; 
And  quiv'ring  lip  and  swelling  heart 
Soon  bade  me,  from  my  purpose,  part ; 
For  Mary's  features  shew'd  me  there 
More  grief,  than  Edwy  well  might  bear. 

Her  eyes,  upon  the  floor,  were  bent, 
Forward,  from  age,  her  body  leant ; 
Her  arms,  upon  her  lap,  repos'd, 


41 

Her  wither'd  hands,  in  grief,  were  clos'd; 
Her  forehead,  checker'd  o'er,  with  cares, 
Bore  furrows  deep  and  silver  hairs  : 
And,  all  the  while,  in  silent  wo, 
Down  her  old  face,  where  hitter  tears 
Had  left  the  lines  of  former  years, 
Big  drops  of  heavy  grief  did  flow. 

And  now  her  streaming  eyes,  to  Heaven 
Raising,  she  fix'd  a  moment  there  ; 
Lifting  her  hands,  still  join'd,  in  pray'r, 
As  if,  it  seem'd  an  instant  then, 

Some  feeble  vray  of  hope  were  given. 
And  now  her  hands  were  fall'n  agen ; 
And  now,  again  dejected  low, 
Her  poor,  old  eyes  did  stream  with  wo, 

As  if  her  last  fault  hope  were  riven, 
And  nought  remain'd,  hut  sure  despair. 
11 


42 

And  oft  her  sadly  piercing  look 
Did  cut  my  soul,  with  sharp  rebuke. 
'Twas  not  an  angry  glance  I  read, 
When  thus  she  turn'd  her  eyes  on  me  j 
She  rais'd  her  hands,  and  shook  her  head, 
And  sighed,  and  wept  most  hitterly. 

Then  was  I  fain  the  more,  to  know 

The  cause  of  poor,  old  Mary's  wo. 

For,  on  my  cheek,  though  ready  pride, 

At  once,  th'  ungen'rous  charge  denied, 

Yet,  when  I  found  my  colour  came, 

I  fear'd  'twould  look  like  guilt  and  shame, 

And,  with  my  passing  thought,  the  more 

This  fear  did  spread  the  crimson  o'er. 

s 

But  words,  at  length,  did  force  their  way? 
Yet,  when  my  fearful  question  came. 
And  when  >I  mention'd  Ellen's  name. 


43 

Such  sorrow  shook  her  feeble  frame, 
I  thought  it  was  her  dying  day. 
She  sobb'd  aloud,  her  hands  she  wrung. 
And,  on  her  poor,  old  knees,  she  fell ; 
Her  wither'd  arms  around  me  flung, 
And  then  besought,  that  I  would  tell 
Where  was  her  dear,  her  only  child. 

And  then,  with  piteous  look,  she  smil'd, 
And  faintly  clasp'd  my  knees,  and  said, 
Her  blessing  should  be  on  my  head, 
If  her  last  wish  were  not  denied, 
To  see  her  once,  before  she  died. 

And,  though,  by  all  my  hopes  in  Heaven, 
Of  life  to  come,  and  sins  forgiven, 
I  said,  till  then,  I  ne'er  had  known, 
That  Ellen,  from  the  cot,  had  gone, 
And  poor,  old  Mary  wept  alone  ; 
Yet,  though  I  said  it  often  o'er, 


She  sighed,  and  shook  her  head  the  more  ; 
And  scarcely  lent  a  willing  ear, 
One  word  of  all  my  vows  to  hear  ; 
Till  tears,  at  Mary's  grief  that  fell, 
Down  Edwy's  cheek,  did  surely  tell, 
His  heart,  for  others'  woes,  could  feel, 
And  nought  he  knew,  hut  Ellen's  weal. 

And  when,  at  last,  the  frequent  tear 

> 

• 

Shew'd,  that  my  words  were  all  sincere ; 
And  Mary  fain  would  tell  the  tale, 
Her  feehle  voice  did  often  fail. 
And  of  the  story  many  a  word 
Was  lost,  or  indistinctly  heard ; 
For,  ere  her  heart  could  tell  me  all, 
Her  sohs  were  deep,  her  voice  was  small, 
And  fast  the  bitter  tears  did  fall. 

She  said,  it  was  a  month  before, 
When  her  poor  Ellen  went  away ; 


45 

Dress'd,  in  her  plaid  and  bonnet  gay. 

To  visit,  on  the  neighb'riug  moor, 

At  Agnes'  cot,  the  hill  beside. 

And,  when  old  Mary  bade  her  sure 

Return,  before  the  close  of  day, 

Ellen,  with  feeble  voice,  replied. 

She  should  be  home,  at  eventide. 

And,  when  she  spoke,  though  Mary  heard 

Her  feeble  voice  and  fault'ring  word ; 

And  plainly  mark'd  she  trembled  o'er, 

While  standing,  at  the  cottage  door ; 

The  winter  air  was  cold  and  chill, 

And  Ellen  had,  of  late,  been  ill, 

And  Mary  thought  of  nought  beside. 

But,  when  she  cross'd  the  frozen  brook, 
While  Mary,  through  the  casement,  ey'd, 
It  seem'd,  that  Ellen  stopp'd,  and  gaz'd 
Backward,  toward  the  little  liill ; 

And,  while  she  cast  her  ling'ring  look, 
12 


46 

Ellen  her  kerchief  often  rais'd ; 
It  seem'd,  at  first,  as  she  had  cried : 
But  piercing  was  the  winter  air, 
Which  Ellen's  eyes  could  poorly  hear. 

Now  swiftly  pass'd  the  hours  away  j 
Deep  in  the  west,  the  parting  sun 
Mark'd  the  short  race  of  winter  day  ; 

•/     ' 

Its  fleeting  gold  no  longer  shone 

On  little  hill,  and  cottage  lone  j 

Its  fading  lustre,  faintly  seen, 

Danc'd,  o'er  the  pine's  perennial  green  ; 

Short  while,  its  gaudy  colour  now 

Flounc'd  round  the  mountain's  win'try  hrow: 

And,  while  the  last  fantastick  ray 

Curl'd,  o'er  its  cap  of  drifted  snow, 

'Twas  ev'ning,  in  the  vale  helow. 

No  longer  Mary's  sharpest  ken 
Saw  little  hill,  or  neighh'ring  glen. 


47 

And  oft  she  op'd  the  cottage  door  : 
And  oft  she  held  her  hreath,  to  hear 
Ellen  or  Carlo,  on  the  hill ; 
And  now  it  seem'd,  as  they  were  near; 
And  Carlo,  when  the  wind  was  strong, 
Seem'd  coming,  with  the  blast,  along ; 
And  now  again  'twas  sunken  low ; 
And  now  its  hreath  did  cease  to  blow 
The  brake,  along  the  crusted  snow  : 
And  now  its  lightest  whisper,  still, 
Left  not  a  sound,  on  Mary's  ear. 

At  length,  with  weariness  oppress'd, 
And  thinking  Ellen,  on  the  moor, 
At  Agnes'  cot,  would  pass  the  night, 
And  speed  her  home,  at  morning  light, 
Old  Mary  laid  her  limbs  to  rest.... 

Broad  day,  upon  the  cottage,  shone. 

Ere  Mary  woke  ;  and,  scarce  she  mourn'd, 


48 

That  Ellen  yet  had  not  return'd, 
When,  by  the  wonted  bark,  'twas  known, 
Carlo  was  on  the  threshold  stone. 

Quickly  she  rose,  and  op'd  the  door, 
Her  lips  half  said  the  greeting  fair, 

Forward  she  reach'd  her  welcome  hand 

Then  fail'd  her  heart,  she  scarce  could  stand, 
The  little  Ellen  was  not  there, 
And  Carlo  had  return'd  alone. 

Slowly  he  pass'd  the  threshold  o'er  j 
And  lagging  step  and  panting  tongue 
Spoke  weary  limbs,  and  journey  long. 
No  track,  upon  the  morning  snow. 
The  print  of  Ellen's  foot  did  show. 
Old  Mary  look'd,  towards  the  moor, 
But  nought  of  Ellen  she  discern'd  ; 
At  length,  with  heavy  step,  she  turn'd, 
And  slowly  clos'd  the  cottage  door. 


49 

Now  fast  were  gatk'ring  Mary's  fears, 
And  doubts,  upon  her  mind,  did  crowd. 
And  now  she  thought  of  Ellen's  tears, 
Which,  'neath  the  hawthorn,  once  she  spied, 
And  Ellen  strove,  in  vain,  to  hide  ; 
And  how,  upon  her  little  bed, 
When  she,  of  late,  her  pray'rs  had  said, 
Ellen  had  often  sobb'd  aloud. 

And  now  old  Mary's  mind  was  bent, 
To  seek  for  Ellen,  on  the  moor. 
Her  sad  repast,  in  haste  she  made, 
And  scarce  the  besom,  ere  she  went, 
Pass'd  lightly,  round  the  cottage  floor: 
Her  humble  couch  she  loosely  spread.... 
Then  shook  old  Mary's  feeble  frame. 
Cold  dew,  upon  her  forehead,  came, 
When  first  she  turn'd  her  pillow  o'er  j 
For  none  but  Ellen  there  had  laid 

The  purse,  that  Mary's  hands  had  made. 
13 


50 

Full  many  years  before. 
The  token  Mary's  self  had  given 
To  Ellen,  on  a  Christmas  even. 

« 

It  was  a  gift,  for  mem'ry  dear, 
And,  only  once,  in  ev'ry  year, 

The  token  Ellen  wore  ; 
When  merry  Christmas  eve  came  round, 
And  holly  deck'd  the  cottage  fair ; 
And  Agnes,  Ann,  and  Constance  there 
Partook,  of  Ellen's  welcome  cheer; 
Or  forward  bent,  with  ear  profound, 
Old  Mary's  wond'rous  tale  to  hear  ; 
Of  wizard's  might,  and  giant's  brand, 
And  legend  fair  of  fairy  land. 

But  now,  for  sorrow's  heavy  swell, 
And  tears,  like  floods  of  rain  that  fell, 
No  more  could  poor,  old  Mary  tell. 
But  from  its  place  the  purse  she  took, 


51 

And,  while,  upon  my  hand,  she  laid, 
Though  nought  she  spoke,  yet,  in  her  look, 
Her  very  soul  might  well  he  read. 

My  trembling  fingers  scarce  unbound 
The  silken  string,  that  tied  it  round. 

Ah,  wand'rer  !  sure,  I  need  not  tell 
"What  sorrow,  from  my  eyes,  there  fell, 
When  my  quick  glance  did  wander  there, 
O'er  purse,  and  gold,  and  trinkets   air ; 
And,  how  my  hrow  was  damp  and  cold, 
When  first  they  fix'd  their  eager  gaze, 
Upon  the  little  em'rald's  rays, 
"Which  Huhert's  finger  once  did  wear. 

And  how  my  heart  strings,  weak  and  old. 
Their  struggling  pris'ner  scarce  could  hold, 
When,  last  of  all,  I  ponder'd,  o'er 
The  tale  of  grief,  that  Ellen  told. 


In  ev'ry  line,  'twas  plain,  to  spy 
The  trembling  hand  and  tearful  eye. 

It  was  an  artless  tale  of  sorrow ; 
How  she  had  lent  a  willing  ear, 

.  Long  since,  of  Hubert's  love  to  hear ; 
How  kind  were  all  the  words,  that  hung, 
So  false,  upon  his  wily  tongue : 
And  how  she  oft  had  said,  'twas  shame, 
That  gallant  youth  should  wed  with  her  j 
And  bade  him  woo  some  city  dame, 
While  Ellen  chang'd  her  humble  name, 
For  that  of  some  poor  cottager. 
And  then  would  Hubert  gently  smile, 
And,  gazing,  on  her  face,  the  while, 
Swear,  that  the  fates  would  ill  betide, 
If  Ellen  were  not  Hubert's  bride. 

And  how,  at  last,  with  fair  disguise, 
And  plighted  vows,  and  tears,  and  sighs, 


53 

He  robb'd  her  of  her  dearest  fame  ; 
And  how  poor  Ellen's  op'ning  eyes 
First  shed  the  bitter  drops  of  morrow. 

How  chang'd  was  ev'ry  scene  ! 
The  purling  brook,  she  lov'd  to  hear. 
Though  soft  it  murmur'd,  pain'd  her  ear. 
The  matin  lark,  whose  lofty  measure 
Could  turn  her  morning  toil  to  pleasure  ; 
Though  still  his  notes  were  loud  and  high, 
Call'd  the  big  tear,  to  Ellen's  eye. 
All  wither' d  seem'd  those  hawthorn  bow'rs, 
Where  she  had  pass'd  her  happiest  hours ; 
Tho'  ne'er  more  lovely  shone  their  flow'rs, 
Mid  leaves  of  livelier  green. 

And  how,  full  oft,  at  rustling  brake, 
Her  cheek  would  flush,  her  limbs  would  shake 
And  how,  when  Carlo  brush'd  her  by, 
She  started  wild,  yet  knew  not  why  ; 


55 

And  thus  her  last  request  she  made  ; 

"  Mother  !  this  purse  thy  hands  convej'd, 

To  Ellen,  in  her  childish  years  ; 

'Tis  now,  beneath  thy  pillow,  laid, 

Wet,  with  thy  daughter's  bitter  tears  ; 

Mother !  if  thine  with  mine  can  blend, 
Shed  here  thy  deepest  drops  of  sorrow  ; 

And  dream  thy  daughter's  days  did  end. 
Ere  op'd  her  eyes,  to  weep  for  morrow." 

"  This  em'rald  ring  to  Hubert  bear, 
Tell  him,  for  me,  the  pledge  to  wear. 
Tell  him,  MY  LOVE  AND  CONSTANCY 

WITH  LIFE,  SHALL  E'ER  ABIDE  J 

For  these  were  Hubert's  words  to  me, 
One  summer's  eventide." 

"  Fair  was  that  eve,  like  Ellen's  heart, 
And  ev'ry  bird  did  sing, 


54 

And,  when  lie  frisk'd,  in  gambol  gay, 
How  teats,  unwonted,  found  their  way. 

And  then  she  bade  her  last  farewell; 
Saying,  her  feet  no  more  could  dwell, 
"Where  ev'ry  scene  did  sadly  tell 
Of  former  joys,  of  present  wo, 
How  happy  once,  how  wretched  now 
Was  Ellen's  hopeless  doom. 

Still  could  she   bear  the  world's  rebuke, 
Her  own  remorse,  and  woman's  scorn  ; 
Nay,  all  but  Mary's  piteous  look. 
That  look  of  grief,  when  once  'twas  known, 
Her  child  was  lost,  her  name  was  gone, 

Poor  Ellen's  thread  of  life  would  sever. 
'Twas  better,  when  her  babe  was  born. 
To  seek  some  lowly  tomb, 

And  hide  her,  from  the  world,  forever.   • 


56 

When  Hubert,  near  the  little  brook, 
Bestow'd  this  em'rald  ring." 

"  Tell  him,  for  cold  neglect  and  long, 
Though  Ellen's  tears  do  steal, 

Her  heart  ne'er  chides  him,  for  the  wrong  ; 

Nor  has  that  heart  a  wish,  so  strong, 
As  that,  for  Hubert's  weal." 

"  Tell  him,  if,  on  the  scroll  of  Heaven, 
A  crime  do  stand,  recorded  there, 
The  hapless  Ellen's  ruined  fame, 
Against  the  wretched  Hubert's  name  ; 
Kind  Heav'n  will  grant,  her  tears  may  fall. 
And  wash  that  record,  from  the  scroll ; 
And,  in  its  place,  shall  stand,  as  fair, 
The  little  Ellen's  constant  pray'r, 

That  Hubert's  crime  may  be  forgiven" 


57 

Fast  then  did  Edwy's  sorrow  part, 
Fast  did  the  tear-drops  flow ; 

For  shame,  at  Hubert's  cruel  heart, 
For  grief,  at  Ellen's  wo. 

In  vain,  those  tears  of  sorrow  flow'd, 
In  vain,  were  all  my  words  hestow'd  ; 
And,  all  in  vain,  I  strove  to  raise 
Old  Mary's  hopes,  of  happier  days, 
When  Ellen's  self  should  sooth  her  woes. 
Still  ev'ry  look  was  deep  dismay, 
No  word,  in  answer,  e'er  she  said ; 
"With  downward  hrow,  she  wav'd  her  head  j 
And  ev'ry  flood  of  tears,  that  rose, 
Wash'd,  from  her  heart,  those  hopes  away. 
As  rising  billow  washes  o'er 
Frail  marks,  upon  the  sandy  shore. 

At  length,  she  said,  all  hopes  were  gone, 

Her  cup  was  full,  her  race  was  run ; 
15 


58 

And  well  she  knew,  their  sins  forgiven, 
She  soon  should  meet  her  child,  in  Heaven  : 
For  heart,  so  kind,  and  love,  so  strong, 
Could  ne'er  endure  such  fortune  long. 

To  Hubert,  then  she  hade  me  bring 
Ellen's  forgiveness,  and  the  ring  ; 
And  say*  of  all  those  years  of  AVO, 
That  hapless  Hubert  soon  must  know, 

Old  Mary  wish'd  no  more, 
Of  all  those  days  of  bitter  gall, 
To  wretched  Hubert's  lot  might  fall ; 
Than,  when  his  youth  had  wan'd  away, 
And  blood  grew  chill,  and  locks  were  grey, 

One  still  reflecting  hour.... 

And,  when  I  left  the  little  cot, 
With  kindest  words  my  heart  could  feel, 
Of  tidings  soon,  and  Ellen's  weal  j 
It  seem'd,  as  if  she  heard  me  not : 


59 

And,  when  my  hand  the  latch  did  raise, 
Her  eyes  were  fix'd,  upon  the  blaze.... 

My  tears  fast  were  flowing, 

The  chill  blast  was  blowing, 
>Twas  midnight,  and  lone  was  the  way,  o'er  the  moor ; 

Though  dreary  and  cheerless, 

My  bosom  was  fearless, 
And  strong  were  my  steps,  as  I  turn'd,  from  the  door. 

The  woes  of  poor  Ellen 

My  heart  high  were  swelling ; 
That  heart,  'gainst  the  spoiler,  beat  heavy  and  strong ; 

Those  lips,  that  had  bless'd  him, 

Those  hands,  that  caress'd  him, 
Implor'd  Heav'n's  vengeance,  to  wait  on  the  wrong. 

Yet,  when  I  thought,  how  oft  his  brow, 
Of  late,  was  clouded  o'er,  with  wo  ; 
And  when  the  cause  was  now  so  clear, 
Of  sudden  start,  and  frequent  tear, 


60 

And  late  carouse,  and  goblet  high, 

And  all  unwonted  revelry  ; 

Some  hope  rose  feebly  o'er  my  mind : 

No  youth  was  e'er  as  Hubert  kind ; 

His  smile  was  fair,  his  heart  was  free, 

In  deeds  of  gentlest  charity. 

And  sure,  for  Ellen,  it  must  feel, 

Though  black  with  crimes,  and  cas'd  in  steel. 

But  much  I  fear'd,  he  ne'er,  for  pride, 

"Would  seek  poor  Ellen,  for  his  bride. 

Yet  firm  was  Edwy's  purpose  then, 

That  ne'er  his  limbs  should  rest  agen, 

Though  his  old  knees  might  need  delay, 

Though  cold  the  blast,  and  long  the  way  ; 

Until,  to  Hubert,  he  should  bring 

The  words  of  Ellen,  and  the  ring. 

And,  if  the  wretch  should  recreant  prove, 

Alike  to  honour  and  to  love  ; 

Then  Edwy's  bitter  curse  should  flow, 


61 

On  Hubert's  head  forever  ; 
And,  o'er  the  world,  his  steps  should  go, 
Till  wand'ring  Ellen,  safe  from  harms, 
Found  rest,  in  aged  Edwy's  arms  : 
Nor  pause,  till  then,  his  feet  should  know, 

Till  life's  frail  thread  should  sever. 

Then  Edwy's  store  would  well  supply 
The  days,  of  Ellen's  destiny ; 
For  I  had  grown,  in  service,  grey, 
And  wasted  ne'er  my  gains  away 

The  day  did  dawn,  yet,  on  mine  ear, 
As  homeward  now  approaching  near, 
Came  the  loud  shout  and  laughter  high, 
With  mingled  sounds  of  revelry. 

And,  when  my  steps  did  reach  the  hall, 
'Twas  rude  carouse,  and  riot  all. 

16 


62 

Bound  went  the  song  and  jovial  glee, 
And  Hubert's  voice  rang  merrily. 

High  then  my  heart  did  swell  the  more ; 
In  scorn,  I  gaz'd  his  features  o'er  ; 
And  soon  I  mark'd  his  kindling  eye, 
That  met  my  look,  in  fierce  reply. 
For  oft,  of  late,  my  hints  did  fall, 
'Gainst  nights  of  endless  revelry. 

In  wrath,  upon  my  face,  he  gaz'd  ; 
His  wine-sick  brain  could  poorly  brook 
My  bended  brow,  and  clouded  look. 
And,  when  I  wav'd  my  locks  of  grey, 
His  burning  anger  forc'd  its  way ; 
A  goblet,  from  the  board,  he  rais'd, 
He  hmi'd  the  cup,  it  scath'd  my  broMr, 
And  big,  red  drops  began  to  flow. 
Then  riot  rose,  and  all  the  throng 
Bang  loud  applause,  in  laughter  long. 


63 

But  Hubert's  face  was  clouded  o'er  ; 

For,  still,  regardless  of  the  blow, 

Witb  look  unchang'd,  such  glance  I  bore, 

As  Edwy  never  gave  before. 

And  Hubert  well  might  feel  amaze, 

For  bold  and  scorching  was  my  gaze. 

Down  my  old  hairs,  the  red  stream  ran, 
When  slowly  thus,  my  words  began  j 
"  Hubert !  these  hairs  resent  the  wrong ! 
Thine  aim  was  true,  thine  arm  is  strong ; 

So,  Hubert,  once  were  mine  : 
Where  this  old  scar  does  mark  my  brow, 
From  which,  once  more  the  stream  does  flow, 
I  bore,  for  thee,  a  ruffian's  blow  ; 
This  arm  then  laid  the  victim  low, 

And  sav'd  that  life  of  thine  !" 

Full,  in  his  eye,  the  tear-drop  came, 
He  gnaw'd  his  lip,  for  rage  and  shame.... 


64 

Wand'rer,  when  youthful  Wood  ran  high, 

When  toys  and  trifles  were  thy  cares, 

Didst  e'er,  in  hoyish  revelry, 

Scoff,  at  an  old  man's  silver  hairs  ? 

If  so,  perhaps  thy  heart  has  horn 

That  old  man's  silent  look  of  scorn. 

Well  then  thou  know'st,  why  slept  that  hall, 

Where  late  'twas  noise  and  riot  all  j 

For,  slowly  round,  old  Edwy  hore 

Such  look,  as  words  had  made  more  poor.... 

Soon  went  the  crowd  ;  and,  slowly  then, 
I  thus  resum'd  my  words  agen; 
"  Hubert !  'tis  true,  in  other  years, 

For  such  ungen'rous  deed, 
Old  Edwy's  eyes  would  fill  with  tears, 

For  grief,  his  heart  would  bleed".... 

No  word  did  Hubert  then  reply, 

But  the  round  tears  o'erflow'd  his  eye, 


65 

For,  scarce  had  gone  the  noisy  crowd. 
Ere  fast  he  wept  and  sohb'd  aloud 

"  Hubert !  preserve  those  tears,  that  flow, 
And  shed  them,  for  another's  wo  ! 
If,  in  thy  breast,  remorse,  for  wrong, 

Can  plunge  its  deadly  sting ; 
If  e'er  thy  heart  of  steel  can  bleed, 
For  blackest  crime,  for  foulest  deed  ; 
Weep,  for  the  woes  of  her,  to  whom 

Thou  gav'st  this  em'rald  ring !" 

Wild  then  and  sudden  was  his  start  j 

Soon,  from  his  lips,  the  blood  did  part. 

And  strangely  now  his  eye  did  gaze, 

Upon  the  little  em'rald's  blaze. 

Still  fix'd,  his  fading  sight  did  glare  ; 

His  eye  seem'd  still  directed  there, 

Nor  more  than  seem'd ;  now  reel'd  his  head, 

His  senses  fail'd,  his  vigour  fled. 
17 


66 

Then  flush'd  my  face,  my  fears  grew  strong. 
For  flick'ring  life  did  linger  long  ; 
And  long  I  cliaf'd  his  palms  and  brows, 
Ere,  to  his  cheek,  the  life-blood  rose. 

At  length,  there  came  a  piteous  sigh  ; 
And,  when  the  little  em'rald's  light 
Glanc'd,  on  his  slowly  lifting  eye, 
He  strangely  shudder'd,  at  the  sight. 

And,  when  I  deem'd  Ms  strength  would  bear 

To  hear  the  tale,  I  told  him  all  j 

And  mark'd  the  bitter  tear-drops  fall. 

And,  ere  of  half,  my  lips  did  say, 

They  rested  oft,  in  short  delay  ; 

For  oft  his  cheek  grew  deadly  pale, 

And  oft  his  wav'ring  sense  did  fail. 

But,  when  I  said,  "  for  all  the  wrong, 
She  chides  thee  not ;  her  constant  pray'r 


67 

Shall  stand,  upon  the  scroll  of  Heaven, 
That  Huhert's  crime  may  he  forgiven  :" 
Both  palms  his  wretched  face  did  hide, 
While,  with  short  sohs,  he  feebly  cried, 
"  Oh  !  spare  me,  cruel  Edwy,  spare !" 

"  No,  Hubert !"  Edwy  then  replied, 
"  Still  heavier  be  thy  sorrow  laden  ! 

Still  flow  thy  tears,  in  bitter  tide  ! 
Thou  didst  not  spare  an  hapless  maiden ! 

Though  heavy  now  thy  heart  does  seem, 
Yet  light  may  be  that  heart  tomorrow  ; 

Not  far  is  now  that  bright'ning  beam, 
Whose  smile  may  chase  away  thy  sorrow. 

Oh,  Hubert !  can  thy  heart  be  gay, 
While  Ellen's  tears  do  flow  forever  ?" 

With  quiv'ring  lip,  he  quick  did  say, 
"•  No  !  good  old  Edwy,  never !  never  ! 

Her  wrongs  shall  be  my  daily  theme  ; 

Her  woes  shall  be  my  nightly  dream  ; 


68 

No  smile,  upon  this  brow,  shall  heam  , 
No  joy,  within  this  heart,  shall  gleam , 
No  garb  I'll  wear,  but  weeds  of  wo  ; 
No  rest  my  wand'ring  feet  shall  know  ; 
In  ev'ry  draught,  my  tears  shall  show'r, 

And  mingle,  with  the  spring ; 
Till  Ellen's  hand,  in  bridal  hour, 

Shall  wear  this  em'rald  ring !".... 

Soft  were  my  hours  of  short  repose  ; 
I  dream'd,  that  poor,  old  Mary's  woes 
And  hapless  Ellen's  griefs  were  o'er, 
And  Hubert  was  a  wretch  no  more.... 

Now,  from  my  couch,  in  haste  I  rose, 
That  Mary's  heart  might  joy,  to  know 
The  tidings  fair  of  Hubert's  vow. 
And,  ne'er  with  half  the  speed,  before. 
Old  Edwy  reach'd  the  cottage  door. 


69 

Soon  did  my  footsteps  enter  there. 
While,  on  my  brow,  smil'd  tidings  fair. 
Upon  her  bed,  old  Mary  laid  ; 
Her  hands  were  clasp'd,  as  if  she  pray'd. 
Bat  soon  I  mark'd,  though  piercing  cold, 
No  blaze  the  cottage  hearth  did  hold  ; 
And  Carlo,  couch'd,  beside  the  bed, 
With  piteous  whine,  and  lifted  head. 

One  eager  glance  did  plainly  show, 
Her  wither'd  chin  had  sunken  low. 
And,  in  her  eye,  half  op'd,  half  clos'd, 
The  silent  look  of  death  repos'd. 
Her  last  sad  tear  had  ceas'd  to  flow, 
And,  frozen,  on  her  cheek,  did  stand. 
And,  when  I  lightly  pass'd  my  hand, 
With  trembling  haste,  upon  her  brow, 

My  palm  did  seem  on  mountain  snow  !.... 
18 


70 

Wanderer,  have  you  ever  seen. 
Half  hidden,  in  the  lowland  green, 
The  bashful  lily  of  the  vale  ; 
One  single  bell,  upon  a  stem  ? 
Whose  fragrance,  floated  on  the  gale, 

Whose  lustre  brighter  grew, 
When  closer  to  the  flow'r  you  came, 

And  gaz'd,  with  nearer  view  ? 
And,  when  you  rais'd  its  little  head, 
More  fragrance  and  new  lustre  shed  j 
And,  when  releas'd,  resum'd  again 
Its  humble  air  and  modest  mien  ? 

And  have  you  torn  away  the  flow'r, 
The  plaything  of  an  idle  hour, 
And  thrown  it  lightly  by  ? 
And  did  you  e'er,  at  parting,  view 
The  stock,  on  which  the  lily  grew, 
And  mark,  how  soon  the  feeble  stem, 


71 

Dishonour'd  of  its  only  gem, 

Would  droop,  and  pine,  and  die  ? 

Thus  lovely  once  did  Ellen  seem, 
When  first,  beside  the  little  stream, 
Hubert  her  artless  charms  survey'd, 
As  there,  at  eventide,  she  stray'd. 

Thus,  on  her  cheek,  the  deep'ning  hue, 
More  closely  seen,  more  lovely  grew  ; 
And  thus  her  modest  head  she  hung, 
When  love  was  first,  on  Hubert's  tongue. 
And  thus  he  stole  away  the  flow'r, 
The  plaything  of  an  idle  hour, 

And  threw  it  lightly  by  j 
And  thus  old  Mary's  heart,  despoil'd, 
Robb'd  of  her  dear,  her  only  child, 

Did  droop,  and  pine,  and  die.... 


ieafli  to  tdl ; 


-**^^^^-  ^^^^^^WBB^^^W'  K^MHn  SHI^HB.  ff  ^^^Hn 


73 

And  wild  resolve,  before  a  word 
Of  hapless  Ellen's  fate  he  heard. 

As  long  the  tale,  as  sad  to  hear, 
Of  wand'ring  Ellen's  constant  tear, 
And  drooping  head,  and  fainting  heart, 
And  flick'ring  life,  that  long'd  to  part ; 
And  sharp  rehuke,  and  woman's  scorn, 
Long,  ere  her  happy  babe  was  born  ; 
Scarce  to  breathe  the  air  of  morrow, 
Ere  to  leave  a  world  of  sorrow. 

'Twere  wrong,  thy  gentle  heart  should  know, 

Of  all  those  hours  of  varied  wo, 

That  long  the  friendless  Ellen  bore. 

And  shall  my  lips,  unwilling,  tell 

What  vice  and  misery  did  dwell, 

Where  my  long  search,  at  last,  regain'd 

All,  that  of  Ellen  still  remain'd  ? 

Kind  stranger,  let  me  pass  it  o'er.... 
19 


74 

But  no,  for  now  thine  anxious  eyes 
Do  speak  unkind,  unjust  surmise.... 

And  is  thy  luckless  fortune  blind, 
To  half  the  worth  of  womankind  ? 
And  canst  thou,  in  ungen'rous  part, 
Think  lightly  of  a  woman's  heart  ? 

Such  thoughts  were  mine,  but  long  before 
The  frothy  tide  of  youth  was  o'er. 
And  long,  till  manhood  drew  the  veil, 
'Gainst  woman's  heart,  I  lov'd  to  rail  j 
'Gainst  woman's  heart,  I  lov'd  to  hear 
The  jest  unkind,  and  word  severe. 
For,  oft  it  sure  did  seem  to  me, 
That  woman's  love  and  constancy 
Were  legend  light,  and  fairy  tale. 

I  thought,  as,  than  a  feather  fail-, 
More  light  was  filmy  gossamer  ; 


75 

So  woman's  heart  was  lighter  far, 
Than  lightest  breath  of  summer  air, 
Which  is  so  light,  it  scarce  can  hear 
The  filmiest  thread  of  gossamer. 

But  if,  'gainst  gentle  woman,  aught 
Thou  bear'st,  in  such  ungen'rous  thought, 
Shame  on  a  heart,  that  would  disown 
The  fairest  jewel,  in  its  crown  1 
Oh !  let  such  thought  forever  go  ! 
Or  never,  never  shalt  thou  know 
Life's  dearest  drop  of  balm,  that  flows 
To  mingle,  with  thy  worldly  woes. 

And,  through  thy  mortal  journey,  long, 
Thy  loss  shall  pay  thee,  for  the  wrong. 
Thy  bitter  youth  shall  never  feel 
That  tear  of  soul-felt  rapture  steal, 
While  dearest  thoughts  thy  heart  beguile. 
Of  tender  love  and  constancv  ; 


76 

Gazing  on  heav'nly  woman's  smile. 
That  lives  and  loves,  alone  for  tliee. 

Thy  stale  noon  day  of  life  shall  run, 
Before  another's  youth  is  done  : 

On  woman,  if  thou  hadst  hestow'd, 
In  youth,  thy  love,  thy  constant  cares ; 
Lighter,  hy  half,  had  heen  thy  load, 
Fewer,  hy  half,  had  heen  thy  tears. 
Vain  then  will  he  thy  hopes,  to  horrow 
A  constant  heart,  to  sooth  thy  sorrow. 

And,  when  thy  wane  is  chill  and  drear, 
And,  when  the  verge  of  life  is  near ; 
No  woman's  love  and  constancy 
Shall  shed  one  hitter  tear  for  thee  ; 
No  hand  shall  ask  thy  last  caressing  j 
No  child  shall  seek  thy  tender  hlessing.... 


77 

If,  'gainst  the  heart  of  Ellen  now 
Surmise,  does  in  thy  bosom,  flow, 
Oh,  let  one  gen'rous  tear-drop  part, 
And  blot  the  scandal,  from  thy  heart ! 

No  varying  griefs  her  love  could  change, 
No  weight  of  woes  her  heart  estrange. 

And,  if  thou  marvell'st,  how  it  fell, 
That  Ellen's  feet  e'er  came  to  dwell, 
In  haunts  of  vice  ;  then,  stranger,  know, 
Perfidious  man,  in  pity's  guise, 
Did  basely  lure  her  to  the  cell ! 
And,  there  detain'd,  long  vainly  strove, 
Poor  Ellen's  changeless  heart  to  move, 
With  paltry  gold  and  empty  sighs. 

For,  when  he  found  her,  houseless,  poor, 
And  begging  alms,  from  door  to  door  ; 

He  said,  'twere  shame,  that  one,  so  fair, 
20 


78 

Such  cruel  part  Avere  dooni'd  to  bear  ; 
And,  kindly  ask'd,  that  she  would  tell, 
Where  chanc'd  herself  and  friends  to  dwell. 

And,  when  he  knew  no  friends  were  near, 
No  father's  shield,  no  brother's  spear, 
Whose  lion-heart  might  not  be  long, 
To  right  an  injur'd  sister's  wrong ; 
His  gallant  soul,  its  purpose  high, 
Her  cup  of  bitter  gall  to  fill, 
To  make  a  wretch  more  Avretched  still, 
Conceal'd,  beneath  a  pitying  sigh. 
He  said,  he  knew  a  gentle  friend, 
An  aged  dame,  whose  ample  store, 
And  tender  heart,  and  friendly  door 
Were  always  open  to  the  poor. 

And  thus  the  practis'd  wretch  deceiy'd, 
And  artless  Ellen  all  believ'd. 


79 

And  thus  he  lur'd  her  to  the  cell, 
Where  vice  and  misery  did  dwell. 

And  long  he  strove,  with  purpose  vain, 
O'er  Ellen's  constant  heart  to  reign. 
At  length,  the  wretch,  with  nought  to  boast, 
But  time  and  labour,  basely  lost, 
Turn'd  from  the  chase,  and  gave  it  oe'r  ; 
And  cast  no  thought  of  Ellen  more. 

Her  weary  woes,  at  last,  o'ercame 
Her  tender  heart,  and  feeble  frame  ; 
And,  in  her  wildly  staring  eye, 
Now  rag'd  the  burning  hectick  high. 
No  gentle  hand,  no  constant  care 
Turn'd  Ellen's  fever'd  pillow  there  : 
And,  had  not  Heav'n  directed  then 
My  steps,  to  find  her  secret  cell, 
My  feet  had  sought  the  wretch,  in  vain. 
For  Ellen  ne'er  I  dream'd  to  see, 


80 

In  haunts,  like  these  ;  where  sorrow's  pow'r, 

And  cruel  man's  perfidious  part 

Can  oft  compel  the  wretched  heart, 

To  short-liv'd  vice  and  misery ; 

Till  to  mine  ear  a  tale  there  came, 

That,  in  these  hideous  haunts,  did  dwell 

A  wretch,  who  turn'd  her  haggard  eye, 

From  man's,  as  from  a  tiger's  low'r  ; 

And  oft,  in  her  delirious  hour, 

Call'd  wildly,  upon  Hubert's  name, 

And  rav'd  of  love  and  constancy.... 

Oh  !  'twas  a  piteous  thing,  to  see 
The  little  Ellen's  misery. 

•> 

For  fever'd  Wood  and  constant  care 
Had  strangely  shorn  her  flowing  hair. 
That  eye,  whose  glance  did  once  reveal 
Whate'er  her  gentle  soul  did  feel, 
That  hazel  eye  did  strangely  glare, 
And,  in  its  socket,  sunken  low, 


81 

Now  told  of  nought,  but  wild  despair. 

Care's  anxious  hand  had  stamp'd,  e'en  now, 

Its  checker'd  signet,  on  her  hrow. 

Her  cheek,  deep  liu'd,  by  streaming  woes, 

Display'd,  by  fits,  the  fev'rish  rose, 

And  pallid  lily,  sadly  fair. 

And,  when  the  hectick  strife  was  o'er, 

Then,  on  her  cheek,  the  rose  no  more 

Strove,  'gainst  the  pale  usurper's  pow'r  ; 

The  lily  sat,  in  triumph  there. 

Scarce  aught  remain'd,  by  which,  to  know 

'Twas  Ellen,  but  the  tale  of  wo.... 

That  hawthorn,  which  I  oft  have  seen, 
With  flow'rs,  so  fair,  and  leaves,  so  green, 
Long  since  has  yielded  to  the  storm, 
And  stands,  like  Ellen's  blighted  form. 
Its  pride,  its  fragrance,  all  have  past 
Away,  before  the  wint'ry  blast  ; 

Its  flow'r  is  lost,  its  leaf  is  shorn  : 
21 


82 

And,  save  its  sharp  and  rugged  thorn, 
No  sign  is  seen,  no  vestige  there, 
Of  lovely  hawthorn,  once  so  fail1.... 

Yet,  still  some  fading  lines  were  seen, 
That  told,  what  Ellen  once  had  heen. 
For  nature's  stamp,  so  fair  and  strong, 
Must  stand  the  tide  of  sorrow  long.... 

But,  wand'rer,  well  thy  wearied  ear 
May  lag,  an  old  man's  tale  to  hear. 
And,  if  the  tale  has  heen  too  long, 
Forgive  an  old  man's  erring  tongue  ; 
Whose  heart  does  love  to  linger,  o'er 
The  days  of  youth,  the  scenes  of  yore.... 

Now  the  mower's  toil  is  ending, 
Flocks  and  herds  are  homeward  hending^ ; 
And,  mark  !  heneath  the  mountain's  brow. 
The  parting  sun  has  sunken  low.... 


83 

The  time  of  summer's  day  were  small, 
If  thou  wouldst  hear,  to  tell  thee  all : 
Of  tender  meeting,  sadly  fair  j 
Of  Ellen's  tear,  of  Hubert's  pray'r ; 
And  how,  at  first,  poor  Ellen  sigbed, 
"When  Hubert  sought  her,  for  his  bride. 
She  said,  her  heart  had  lost  its  pride, 

Her  soul  must  wend  to  Heaven. 
And  how,  when  Ellen  came  to  know, 
Of  wretched  Hubert's  dreadful  vow, 
She  wore  the  ring,  in  bridal  hour, 
And  said,  that  all  her  griefs  were  o'er : 
For,  though  she  felt  they  soon  must  part, 
Yet,  now  she  knew,  that  Hubert's  heart 

Would  surely  be  forgiven. 

And  how,  of  all,  when  tidings  came 
To  Hubert's  sire  ;  for  rage  and  shame, 
He  fiercely  turn'd  him  from  his  door  : 


84 

For  Hubert  then  had  long  withstood 
His  cruel  sire's  unbending  mood ; 
And  ne'er  would  give  his  heartless  hand, 
For  wealthy  lady's  gear  and  land. 

And  how  old  Edwy  ne'er  before, 

Mid  all  the  joys  of  better  years, 

Did  know  such  deal-,  such  heart-felt  hour, 

As,  when  his  constant  pray'rs  and  tears 

Prevail'd,  on  Hubert's  heart,  to  take 

His  ample  store,  for  Ellen's  sake. 

And  how,  at  length,  no  more  to  bide, 
Where  cruel  sire  and  heartless  friend 
Did  rudely  scoff,  and  fiercely  chide  ; 
Old  Edwy  cross'd  the  ocean  billow, 

With  Hubert  and  his  drooping  bride. 
And  how,  when  Ellen's  toils  were  ending, 
W hen  life  and  death  were  gently  blending, 


85 

Poor  Hubert's  sleepless  eye  did  bend, 
For  days  and  nights,  o'er  Ellen's  pillow.... 

When  Ellen's  soul  had  gone  to  Heaven, 
Her  mortal  frame,  by  Hubert's  care, 
Was  laid,  beneath  the  willow  there. 

And  oft  he  sought  the  spot,  at  even, 

And  scatter'd  wild  flow'rs,  o'er  the  tomb. 
Strange  seem'd  his  brow,  his  grief  was  dumb. 

He  rais'd  no  sigh,  no  tear  he  shed, 
Nor  word  of  Ellen  e'er  he  said  ; 
But  silent  thus,  for  hours,  would  stay, 
Gazing,  upon  the  tablet  grey. 

It  was  a  month  or  more, 
After  the  hapless  Ellen  died, 
When  first  poor  Hubert's  change  I  spied, 

And  knew,  that  all  was  o'er. 


86 

Hubert  was  then  mine  only  care  ; 
And,  oft  I  strove  to  sooth  his  mind. 
Aiding  his  daily  search,  to  find 
The  wild  wood-rose  and  lily  fair. 

One  eve,  as  Hubert  thus  did  stray, 
I  mark'd  his  look  more  earnest  grew  : 
At  length,  with  eager  haste,  he  flew, 
And  pluck' d  a  little  hare-hell  blue  ; 
And,  strangely  smiling,  toss'd  away 
The  wild  wood-rose,  and  lily  gay. 
And  cried,  while  reaching  out  the  flow'r, 
"  Edwy>  it  is  my  wedding  day  ; 
This  pledge  of  Jove,  good  Edwy,  bear, 
And  say,  to  Ellen,  she  must  wear 
This  em 'raid  ring,  in  bridal  hour." 

And,  while  my  heart  with  sorrow  bledr 
I  turn'd  to  hide  my  grief,  and  said, 
"  Sure,  dearest  Hubert,  thou  dost  know, 


87 

That  pass'd  is  Ellen's  bridal  hour ! 
And,  sure  thou  know'st,  this  little  thing, 
Which  thou  dost  call  an  em'rald  ring, 
Is  nothing  but  an  hare-bell  flow'r !" 

Then  first  his  tears  began  to  flow  ; 
Wild  was  the  piteous  look  he  gaye  ; 
And,  as  he  slowly  turn'd  to  go, 
He  mutter'd,  "  'tis  a  cruel  thing, 
That  Edwy  will  not  bear  the  ring : 
Ellen  will  chide  my  long  delay." 

And,  when,  as  reas'ning  words  were  vain, 
I  said,  to  sooth  his  fever'd  brain, 
"  Stay,  dearest  Hubert,  weep  not  so  ; 
Edwy  will  bear  that  ring,  for  thee  !" 
He  turn'd,  and  gaz'd  me  wildly  o'er, 
As  one  he  ne'er  had  seen  before  ; 
And  cried,  "  who  art  thou  ?  art  thou  he, 
Who  made  the  little  Ellen's  grave  ? 


88 

And  wilt  thou  make  a  grave,  for  me  ?" 
And  then  his  features  sadly  smil'd  ; 
And  then  they  chang'd  to  laughter  wild. 
And,  then,  in  haste,  he  turn'd  away, 
And  sought  the  spot,  where  Ellen  lay. 
And,  when  the  willow  came  in  sight, 
He  turn'd,  and  whisper'd,  in  mine  ear, 
Some  words,  so  low,  I  could  not  hear : 
Then,  with  slow  tread,  and  footing  light. 
And  lifted  finger,  creeping  near, 
Short  while,  his  list'ning  ear  he  laid, 

Upon  the  tablet  low  ; 
Then  slowly  rising,  wav'd  his  head. 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

Then  couch' 'd,  upon  the  tablet  grey, 
Till  slumber  chas'd  his  woes  away. 
As  now,  beneath  the  lonely  wiuW, 
He  makes  the  simple  stone  his  pillow,... 


89 

Plainer  now,  thou  liear'st  the  fountain, 
Murm'ring  brook,  and  tinkling  bell ; 

Day  has  gone,  beyond  the  mountain  ; 
Eventide  is  in  the  dell.... 

Go,  gentle  wand'rer,  go  ! 
The  task  is  o'er,  the  tale  is  told  : 
And,  sure,  thy  heart  will  ne'er  withhold 
One  pray'r,  that  Hubert's  bitter  tears 
May  blot  the  crime  of  former  years  ; 

One  sigh,  for  Ellen's  wo. 


S3 


THE   TRIAL   OF  THE  HARP. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  HARP.     - 


Now,  blithe,  the  fairy  circles  glide, 
In  frolick  dance,  at  eventide  ; 
They  screen  their  forms,  from  mortal  eye, 
In  green  and  silver  livery  : 
Green  is  the  mead,  on  which  they  stray, 
And  silver  is  the  moonbeam's  ray. 

Within  the  magick  ring, 
There  stands  a  cave,  whose  thousand  rays 
The  silver  beam,  in  pride,  displays  ; 
Blending  the  crystal's  gairish  sheen, 
With  lively  light  of  jasper  green  : 


94 

Its  dome,  with  crystal,  is  array'dy 
And  jasper  gems  its  colonnade  : 

There  reigns  th'  JEolian  king.... 

Slow  rising,  from  the  cavern'd  hall. 

First  comes  an  aged  seneschal. 

His  finger,  on  his  lips,  he  lays, 

The  sign  the  fairy  band  obeys  ; 

They  cease  the  dance,  they  form  the  ring. 

And  wait,  expectant,  for  the  king. 

The  monarch  comes  ;  again,  to  all. 
The  sign  the  seneschal  conveys, 
His  finger,  on  his  lips,  he  lays  ; 
No  fairy,  from  the  ring,  does  stir, 
But,  on  the  knee,  they  lightly  fall, 
And  wave  their  wands  of  gossamer. 

The  high  command,  on  rapid  wing, 
Bears  Zephyr,  herald  of  the  king, 


95 

To  ev'ry  breeze  and  ev'ry  gale, 
On  mountain  cliff,  in  lowland  dale. 
E'en  to  the  winds,  that  gently  sweep 
The  tiny  stream,  and  curl  the  deep, 
The  herald  bears  the  tidings  high. 
The  East  alone  and  all  his  train, 
Unbidden  to  the  court,  remain. 
Instant,  the  winds  obedient  fly  j 
Around  their  monarch's  cave  they  stand, 
And,  silent,  wait  their  king's  command. 

All  own  their  lord,  from  noisy  North, 
Who  leads  his  blasts,  in  riot,  forth, 
E'en  to  the  breeze,  that  softly  blows. 
In  love,  upon  the  wild  wood-rose. 

All,  but  the  whirlwind,  at  the  word, 
Speed,  with  liege  haste,  before  their  lord  j. 
He  bade  th'  .ZEolian  herald,  bring 
His  bold  defiance,  to  the  king.... 


96 

Uprose  the  king  of  winds  ;  the  band 

Of  fames  rise,  and  round  him  stand. 

No  breeze  dare  move,  whose  breath  could  stir 

Their  little  wands  of  gossamer. 

Swift,  at  the  word,  an  herald  brings 

The  living  lyre,  of  silver  strings  ; 

And,  in  th'  JEolian  monarch's  name, 

He  makes  aloud  the  high  proclaim. 

"  Come,  all  ye  winds,  who  dare  aspire, 

To  sweep  the  soft  ./Eolian  lyre  ! 

In  order  rise,  no  humble  meed 

Is,  to  the  victor  wind,  decreed ; 

Be  it  or  zephyr,  breeze,  or  gale, 

Whose  skill  shall,  o'er  the  lyre,  prevail !" 

The  herald  ceas'd  ;  when,  loud  and  strong, 
The  Northwind  rush'd  amid  the  throng ; 
Unmarshall'd  forth,  he  sprang,  and  seiz'd  the  lyre  : 
With  wild,  tremendous  hand,  he  pass'd, 
Along  the  chords,  in  wint'ry  blast. 


97 

So  rude  the  touch,  so  rough  the  measure, 
The  fairies  fled,  and,  from  their  hands, 
In  fear,  they  dropp'd  their  magick  wands. 
Confusion  ran,  through  all  the  crowd, 
And  trembling  zephyrs  sighed  aloud. 
Yet  was  the  noisy  North  so  vain, 
He  fain  would  have  the  lyre  again  ; 

The  lyre  had  rapt  his  soul  in  pleasure. 
The  herald  rose,  and  bade  the  North  retire. 
Again,  obedient  to  the  king, 
The  fames  form'd  the  magick  ring.... 

Again  the  herald  made  proclaim  ; 

The  herald  ceas'd....th'  inconstant  South  uprose  ; 
No  zephyr,  in  his  train,  there  came  : 
With  conscious  pride,  he  vaunted  forth, 
Pleas'd,  at  the  failure  of  the  North  ; 

For  North  and  South  were  old  and  deadly  foes. 
25 


98 

Amid  the  fairy  throng, 
With  lofty  step  and  strong, 
He  proudly  swept  along. 

Wild  and  fantastick  were  the  sounds  he  made. 

Now  madly  bold,  now  trembling  and  afraid, 
His  fev'rish  hand,  with  haste,  display'd 
The  varying  notes,  from  high  to  low  : 
And  now,  with  rapid  hand  of  fire, 
He  rudely  twang'd  the  chords,  and  now 
He  softly  crept,  along  the  lyre. 

Proud  of  his  skill,  he  glanc'd  around, 
Upon  the  North,  in  high  disdain, 
Whose  hand  had  tried  the  lyre,  in  vain  : 
And  now  his  notes  again  grew  strong ; 

He  sought,  for  higher  fame. 
But,  when  he  found,  from  all  the  throng, 

No  murm'ring  plaudit  came  j 


99 

His  hand  grew  light,  he  lower'd  his  tone. 
And  glanc'd,  upon  the  monarch's  throne  : 

The  monarch  frown'd. 
Sudden,  he  lost  his  native  fire, 
And,  quiv'ring,  fault'ring,  dropp'd  the  lyre  ; 

And  died  away,  for  shame. 

The  herald  now  could  scarce  restrain 
The  North  wind,  from  the  lyre  again. 

« 

Once  more  the  herald  made  proclaim  ; 
And  now  a  thousand  clouds  there  came, 
With  hollow  hlast  and  tempest  strong, 
That  pioneer'd  the  East  along. 
Soon  rose  the  king  of  winds,  in  ire, 
And  hade  the  pioneers  retire ; 
And  tell  their  lord,  who  dare  resort. 
Unhidden,  to  th'  JEolian  court, 
To  keep  his  blast  and  tempest  bound. 
Whene'er  the  harp  of  winds  did  sound  ; 


100 

• 

Nor  then  permit  his  clouds  to  stray, 
Athwart  the  moonbeam's  silv'ry  way. 

Swift,  at  the  word,  away  they  pass'd, 
Like  April  clouds,  in  Southern  blast.... 

Thrice  now  the  herald  made  proclaim, 
Ere  forth  the  modest  West  wind  came  : 
Twelve  zephyrs,  in  his  train,  did  move, 
Who  hreath'd  the  balmy  breath  of  love. 

At  first,  with  single  hand, 
He  softly  swept  the  silver  strings  along  ; 
And,  when  he  found  his  hand  was  true, 

He  paus'd,  upon  the  lyre. 

While  of  the  zephyr  band 
One,  lightly,  o'er  the  harp,  his  fingers  threw  ; 
His  tiny  fingers  trembled,  as  they  flew, 
Unwont,  alone,  to  raise  a  note,  so  strong. 


101 

He  ceas'd ;  another  came,  and  now  again 
Another  ;  till  no  zephyr  did  remain, 

Of  all  the  little  choir, 
Who  had  not  tried  his  quav'ring  skill. 

Upon  the  silver  lyre  : 
Now  sleeps  the  harp  of  winds,  and  all  is  still !.... 

Hark  !  it  is  the  lyre  again  ! 
Eest  thy  hreath,  to  catch  the  strain  ! 
Now,  in  choir,  the  zephyr  throng 
Gently  sweep  the  chords  along  ! 

Hark !  they  wake  the  trembling  measure  ! 
Now  they  warble  notes  of  pleasure, 

Glee  and  roundelay ! 
Now  they  raise  then*  wild  notes  higher  ! 
And  now  they  swell  the  sounds,  in  fullest  choir  ! 

And  now  they  die  away  ! 
Yet  die,  so  gently,  on  thine  ear, 

That  still  the  sounds  thou  seem'st  to  hear. 

26 


• 


102 

Again  the  harp  is  still ;  and 
A  smile  is  on  the  monarch's  brow. 
Cheer'd,  by  that  smile,  advances,  to  the  lyre, 
The  West,  alone,  the  zephyr  train  retire. 
And  now,  along  the  silver  strings, 
His  magick  hand  he  lightly  flings, 

In  measure,  gently  wild. 
And  now  he  lifts  his  anxious  gaze ; 
'Tis  not  to  seek  the  monarch's  praise  j 
But  much  the  timid  West  did  fear, 
He  might  displease  the  royal  ear : 

He  saw,  the  monarch  smil'd.... 
His  heart  is  firm,  his  hand  is  strong  j 
He  sweeps  the  silver  strings  along. 

Entranc'd,  the  North,  with  ear  profound, 
Now  holds  his  breath,  to  hear  the  sound. 
Amid  the  skies, 
The  wild  notes  rise  ; 


103 

And  now,  to  earth,  they  slowly  fall ; 
And  now  they  murmur,  'neath  the  hollow  ground. 
As  if  the  deep  ton'd  sounds  did  swell, 
From  wizard's  cave,  or  druid's  cell. 
So  distant  now  and  small, 

Thou  scarce  canst  hear  ! 
And  now,  so  near, 

Thou  seem'st,  thy  very  self,  to  raise  the  sound, 
That  strikes  thine  ear  ! 
'Tis  rapture  all ! 

He  wakes  the  silver  lyre  again  j 
Mild  is  the  measure,  soft  the  strain. 
Lull'd  to  rest,  by  magick  numbers^ 
Care  is  sooth'd,  and  sorrow  slumbers. 
The  liquid  sounds,  in  soft  control, 
Now  gently  bind  the  raptur'd  soul ; 
Now,  o'er  this  nether  world,  they  rise, 
And  bear  it  softly,  to  the  skies  : 


104* 

Till,  with  the  measure,  clear  and  even, 
It  seems  to  rest  awhile,  in  Heaven  ! 

Still  is  the  lyre  ! 

The  West  and  all  his  zephyr  train  retire.... 
The  herald  smil'd,  the  monarch  how'd  ; 
And  plaudits  ran,  through  all  the  crowd. 
The  noisy  North  acclaim'd  aloud ; 
He  fain  again  would  hear  the  measure. 
And  ev'ry  fairy,  in  the  band, 
Now  wav'd  aloft  his  little  wand : 
And  ey'ry  zephyr  sighed,  for  pleasure. 

The  herald  made  his  last  proclaim  : 
No  zephyr,  breeze,  or  gale  there  came.... 

Now  spake  that  herald,  Avho  did  stand, 
Upon  the  monarch's  better  hand  ; 
And  thus,  aloud,  decreed ; 


105 

"  Of  all  the  winds,  the  Western  gale, 
Alone,  does,  o'er  the  lyre,  prevail ! 
Then,  let  no  other  wind  aspire, 
To  touch  the  soft  j^Eolian  lyre  : 
Such  is  the  victor's  meed !" 

And  now  the  monarch  waves  his  hand ; 
The  seneschal  the  sign  conveys, 
His  finger,  on  his  lips,  he  lays  ; 
And  ev'ry  fairy,  in  the  hand, 
Now  doffs  his  plume,  and  hends  his  knee, 
And,  to  the  West  wind,  three  times  three, 
Bows  down  his  head,  and  waves  his  little  wand. 

The  herald  glanc'd,  upon  the  king ; 

Again  he  wav'd  his  hand ; 
The  fairies  op'd  their  magick  ring ; 

And,  from  the  monarch's  band, 
Three  pursuivants  escorted  forth 

The  West  wind,  and  the  South,  and  North : 
27 


106 

And  ev'ry  zephyr,  breeze,  and  gale 
Sought  mountain  cliff,  and  lowland  dale. 

Now  slowly,  to  the  cavern'd  hall, 
Proceeds  that  aged  seneschal ; 
The  herald  hears  the  silver  lyre  : 
And  last  the  monarch's  steps  retire. 

Now,  govern'd,  by  their  elfin  king, 
The  fairies  dance,  in  mystick  ring ; 
Till  morning  light  does  faintly  gleam, 
And  mingles,  with  the  silver  beam. 

They  close  their  elfin  monarch  round. 
He  gives  the  sign,  he  stamps  the  ground ; 
And  now  they  fly,  a  thousand  ways, 
In  haste,  to  shun  the  morning  rays  j 
Till  ev'ry  fairy  finds  his  cell, 
Within  the  lily's  perfum'd  bell. 


BILLOWY  WATER. 


BILLOWY  WATEK. 


OU  THE  BANKS  OF  A  RIVER,  AT  MOOX-UGHT. 


THESE  lines  appeared  first,  in  Boston,  in  the  Palladium.  They  were  n-pnl>lislicd,  in  London, 
shortly  after,  in  the  Courier,  without  any  notice  of  their  transatlantic)!  origin.  This  remark  is 
intended,  for  those,  who  have  kmmu  them,  only  as  the  lines  in  the  Courier  ;  or  who  hare  teen 
them,  in  some  of  our  own  newspapers,  as  "  the  production  of  an  anonymous  British  bard. " 


X 

BILL'WY  water,  roll  along! 
While,  far,  I  mark  thy  various  way ; 
At  first,  from  gentle  fountains,  sprung ; 
Through  meadows,  wont  to  stray. 

f 
Softly  there  thy  smooth  tide  flows  ; 

Where,  lighted,  hy  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
The  margin  wild-flow 'r  fondly  bows, 

To  kiss  thy  silv'ry  stream. 

28 


110 

Wavy  soon  thy  waters  grow? 
Nor  longer  softly,  gently  glide  j 
And  other  tiny  streamlets  flow, 
To  swell  thy  hustling  pride. 

Now  thou  quitt'st  thy  native  shoals, 
Some  deeper,  holder  course  to  find. 
A  river,  now  thy  current  rolls, 

And  leaves  the  stream  behind. 

Onward,  to  the  ocean  wide, 
It  pours,  a  torrent,  loud  and  strong  j 
And  hears,  resistless,  on  its  tide, 
Its  grav'ly  bed  along. 

There  thy  turbid  wave  is  seen 
To  hold,  afar,  its  muddy  way  j 
As  if  it  scorn'd,  with  salt  sea  green, 
To  mix  its  waters  grey. 


Ill 

So,  the  troubled  *Arve  pursues 
His  cloudy  way,  through  limpid  Rhone  ; 
Nor  dies  it,  with  his  sable  hues, 
But  holds  his  course  alone. 

Still,  afur,  as  eye  can  strain, 
Thy  wares  are  seen,  in  tempest,  tost  J 
Impetuous,  rushing,  midst  the  main, 
Where  all,  in  surge,  is  lost. 

Bill'wy  water,  roll  along ! 
While  far  I  mark  thy  various  way ; 
Thy  murm'ring  stream,  thy  torrent  strong 
Life's  varying  tide  display. 

First,  its  infant  waters  flow, 
Through  verdant  dale,  and  flow'ry  mead ; 
Where  lilies  of  the  valley  blow, 
And  fairies  softly  tread. 


Glassy  now  its  bosom  seems ; 
But  Av'rice,  soon,  and  bubbling  Pride 
Pour  in  their  tributary  streams  ; 
And  swell  the  little  tide. 

Swift  the  manly  torrent  pours, 
In  frothy  billows,  proudly  tost, 
And,  'midst  life's  troubled  ocean,  roars, 
Till  all,  in  noise,  is  lost. 


•  "BEFORE  you  enter  the  town  of  Sallenche,you  must  cross  the  Arve,  which,  at 
this  season,  is  much  larger  than  in  winter,  being  swoln  by  the  dissolving  snows  of  the 
Alps." 

"This  river  has  its  source  at  the  parish  of  Argentiere,  in  the  valley  of  Chamouni, 
is  immediately  augmented  by  torrents  from  the  neighbouring  Glaciers,  and  pours  its 
chill  turbid  stream  into  the  Rhone,  soon  after  that  river  issues  from  the  lake  of 
Geneva." 

"The  contrast  between  these  two  rivers  is  very  striking,  the  one  being  as  pure  and 
limpid  as  the  other  is  foul  and  muddy." 

"The  Rhone  seems  to  scorn  the  alliance,  and  keeps  as  long  as  possible  unmingled 
•with  his  dirty  spouse." 

"Two  miles  below  the  place  of  their  junction,  a  difference  and  opposition  between 
this  ill-sorted  couple  is  still  observable  :  these,  however,  gradually  abate  by  long  habit, 
till  at  last,  yielding  to  necessity,  and  to  those  unrelenting  laws  which  joined  them  to 
gether,  they  mix  in  perfect  union,  and  flow  in  a  common  stream  to  the  end  of  their 
course." 

Moore's  View  of  France,  &c.  Vol.  I. 


THE  PLUNDERER'S  GRAVE. 


THE  PLUNDERER'S  GRAVE. 


SNOW  hides  the  green  mountain, 

Beneath  its  white  hillow  ; 

And  chill'd  is  the  fountain, 

And  leafless  the  willow  : 

The  tempest,  loud  swelling, 

Now  drives  along,  dreary ; 

Before  the  storm,  yelling, 

The  sea-mew  flies,  weary, 
And,  cow'ring,  seeks  shelter,  from  ocean's  wild  roar. 

While  hillows  are  hounding, 

O'er  rude  rocks,  surrounding 
The  long  sandy  heach,  and  the  craggy  lee-shore. 


116 

Where  now  does  the  bark  ride, 

The  wild  water  braving  ? 

Where  now,  o'er  the  dark  tide, 

The  gay  streamer,  waving  ? 

And  where  now,  so  fearless, 

The  mariner,  helming, 

Mid  clouds,  dark  and  cheerless, 

And  ocean  o'erwhelming  ? 
Where  now  is  the  heart  of  that  mariner  brave  ? 

That  bark  is  dismasted ! 

That  mariner  blasted ! 
That  streamer  has  drunken  the  wild  water-wave  ? 

O'er  breakers,  loud  crashing, 
The  waves  fiercely  bound  her ; 
While,  rude  billows,  dashing, 
In  riot,  roll,  round  her. 
Go,  helmsman,  mid  ocean, 
Thine  arm  now  must  save  thee  ! 


117 

Oh  !  kiss,  with  devotion, 

The  pledge,  that  she  gave  thee. 
Who  ne'er  may  behold  thee,  her  sailor,  again ! 

Think  of  her,  who  is  dearest, 

When  danger  is  nearest, 
Then  plunge  thy  bold  form,  in  the  rough,  rolling  main ! 

Now  tall  waves  dash,  o'er  him, 
Ah  !  vainly  contending ; 
Hope  sinks  fast,  before  him ; 
His  struggles  are  ending. 
Now,  waves,  gently  growing, 
Seem  rising,  to  save  him  ; 
Now,  o'er  the  beach,  flowing, 
More  softly  they  lave  him  : 
His  motionless  corse,  on  the  lone  shore,  they  lay. 
Eude  waves,  loudly  roaring, 
Along  the  strand,  pouring, 

Now  bear  him  again,  o'er  the  watery  way ! 
30 


118 

Again  rise  the  surges  ; 
.        Again  they  restore  him  : 

Again  the  wave  urges 

Its  refluence,  o'er  him  ! 

Who,  reckless  of  danger, 

Now  hraves,  mid  the  ocean  ? 

How  wild  looks  the  stranger  ! 

How  frantick  his  motion  ! 
He  rescues  the  corse,  from  the  rough  rolling  wave  ! 

The  strand,  for  its  pillow, 

From  out  the  salt  hillow, 
He  rescues  the  corse....hut  it  is  not  to  save  ! 

There  stands,  dark  and  lonely, 
The  plunderer's  dwelling  j 
He  seeks  the  strand,  only 
When  sea-mews  are  yelling. 
When,  mid  the  storm  howling, 
No  star  is  seen,  heaming, 


119 

The  wretch  then  is  prowling ; 

The  false  fire  is  gleaming, 
To  lead  the  poor  mariner,  on  to  his  doom  ! 

When  waves  hear  him,  senseless, 

He  robs  the  defenceless, 
And  plunges  the  corse,  in  the  billowy  tomb  ! 

The  foul  hearted  demon, 

The  sailor  despoiling, 

Now  rends,  from  the  seaman, 

The  fruit  of  his  toiling  ! 

O'er  wild  ocean,  braving, 

Hard  earn'd  was  the  treasure, 

Through  tempest,  loud  raving ; 

Though  toiling  was  pleasure, 
For  her,  who  was  dear,  to  the  mariner  bold. 

The  fierce  hand,  unsparing, 

Now  rudely  is  tearing 
The  poor  humble  garb,  from  the  corse,  that  is  cold ! 


ISO 

The  pledge  of  devotion 

Thine  arm  still  is  wearing  ! 

That  pledge,  mid  the  ocean, 

Gave  heart,  to  thy  daring. 

"When  eyes,  brightly  beaming, 

Have  ever  beset  thee  ; 

When  false  fears  were  dreaming, 

Thy  girl  would  forget  thee  ; 
It  brighten'd  thy  love,  and  it  solac'd  thy  fears 

For,  the  girl,  who  was  dearest, 

AVhen  danger  was  nearest, 
There  bound  the  fairpledge5andbedew'dit  with  tears , 

The  eye  of  the  demon 
Glares,  horrid,  in  pleasure  ; 
Poor,  heart-sunken  seaman ! 
He  grasps,  at  thy  treasure ! 
And  shall  he  bereave  thee  ? 
Thy  darling  pledge  sever  ? 


121 

And  cruelly  leave  tliee  ? 
No,  mariner,  never ! 

The  tall  wave  indignantly  rolls  to  the  shore  ! 

i 

The  arm  of  the  Thunderer  . 
Seizes  the  plunderer ! 
Floods  overwhelm  him  !  he  rises  no  more  ! 

The  refluent  hillow 
Now  leaves  the  heach,  waveless  ; 
The  flood  is  the  pillow 
Of  mariner,  graveless. 
But,  mark  the  wave,  stranding, 
More  holdly  aspiring ; 
The  mariner  landing, 
Then  slowly  retiring ! 

The  plunderer  comes  not,  along,  with  the  tide  ! 
The  shark  is  heard,  dashing, 
Amid  the  wave,  splashing  ! 

The  froth  of  the  hillow,  with  crimson,  is  dyed  ! 
31 


1S2 

While  chill  blasts  are  blowing, 

Who,  o'er  the  corse,  gazes  ? 

His  garb,  round  it,  throwing, 

The  sailor  he  raises. 

From  winds,  cold  and  storming, 

The  stranger  has  born  him  ; 

The  blaze,  kindly  warming, 

To  life,  shall  return  him : 
The  stranger  shall  aid  him,  the  stranger  defend. 

His  pulse  now  is  flowing, 

His  bosom  is  glowing  ; 
He  ne'er  shall  forget  the  poor  mariner's  friend... 

The  white  winter-billow 
Has  left  the  green  mountain  ; 
Now  leaves  dress  the  willow ; 
Now  ripples  the  fountain. 
Where  tempests  were  swelling, 
Soft  breezes  are  sweeping, 


123 

The  sea-mew,  late  yelling, 
Is,  'neath  the  rock,  sleeping  ; 

The  sailor  is  far,  from  the  rough  rolling  main. 
The  girl,  that  was  dearest, 
When  danger  was  nearest, 

Now  holds,  to  her  bosom,  her  sailor  again  ! 


THE  TEAR-DROP. 


THE  TEAR-DROP. 


TO  HER,  WHOM  I  LOVE. 


I  LOVE  thee,  dear  girl,  for  those  eyes,  that  speak  pleasure, 
Those  sweet  little  ringlets,  that  artfully  curl  5 

For  lips,  where  I  oft  have  drunk  joy,  without  measure, 
And  cheeks.  Mushing  roses,  I  love  thee,  my  girl. 

But,  ah !  when  the  sad  tale  of  pity  does  move  thee, 
I  love  thee,  indeed,  for  that  deep  hosom-sigh  ; 

Yet  most,  for  that  sure  pledge  of  nature,  I  love  thee, 
The  tear-drop,  that  stands,  in  thy  soft  melting  eye  ! 


128 

And,  still,  while  I  gaze,  at  its  tremulous  motion, 
Or,  down  thy  warm  cheek,  see  it,  stealing  its  way, 

'Tis  dearer  to  me,  than  the  pearl  of  the  ocean. 
And  clearer,  than  India's  gem,  is  its  ray. 

Give  the  tear  to  my  lips,  then  !  and  love,  thus  requited. 

No  longer  shall  mourn,  for  the  loss  of  the  sigh ; 
For  that  was  for  Heaven,  and  seraphs,  delighted, 

Have  born  the  dear  tribute,  in  triumph,  on  high. 

'Twere  joy,  though  the  last  of  my  days  were  tomorrow, 
To  think  you  would  come,  to  lament  for  my  doom  ; 

O'er  my  tablet,  to  shed  such  a  tear-drop  of  sorrow  ; 
To  heave  such  a  sigh,  as  you  turn'd,  from  my  tomb. 

But,  shortly,  my  love,  shall  our  destinies  sever, 
And  ne'er  shalt  thou  weep,  o'er  my  tablet,  for  me, 

For,  when  I  am  cold,  I  shall  rest  me,  forever, 
Beyond  the  wild  water,  far  distant,  from  thee. 


129 

Dearest,  remember  me,  when  the  salt  billow 

Shall  bear  me  away,  o'er  the  rough  rolling  main ; 

Then  let  such  a  tear-drop  bedew  thy  soft  pillow, 
For  him,  who  shall  never  behold  thee  again. 

When  they  tellthee,his  lips,  that,in  pleasure,  were  blended, 
With  thine,  are  elos'd,  motionless,  under  the  sod ; 

And,  that  life's  ebbing  breath,  as  it  pass'd  them,  ascended, 
In  sighs,  to  his  mistress,  and  pray'rs,  to  his  God  j 

Then  say,  that  I  lov'd  thee,  with  warmest  devotion, 
And  sigh,  for  my  fortune,  with  sorrow  sincere  ; 

And,  while  my  fond  spirit  shall  catch  the  emotion, 
Oh !  shed  such  a  tear-drop,  for  memory  dear. 


33 


THE  BILLOW. 


THE  BILLOW. 


Go,  little  billow,  rippling,  go, 
Adown  the  streamlet,  gently  flowing , 

And  roll  thy  way,  along  the  bay, 
Where,  loud,  the  length'ning  blasts  are  blowing. 

And  strive,  to  gain  the  mighty  main,          $ 
Where,  wild,  the  wat'ry  war  is  raging ; 
And  rear  thy  form,  amid  the  storm, 

Where,  fierce,  the  waves  and  winds  are  waging. 
34 


434 

Where  fast,  before  the  thunder's  roar, 
The  mountain-wave  is  madly  driven ; 

And  hursts  its  ire,  mid  lightning's  fire, 
High,  in  the  arch  of  angry  Heaven. 

There,  tempest  tost,  the  hark  is  lost, 
The  sailor  toils,  o'er  ocean  swelling ; 

And  hope  has  fled,  while,  round  his  head, 
The  grey  sea-mew  is  loudly  yelling. 

When  parting  life  has  ceas'd  the  strife, 
Go,  Heaven  speed  thee,  rolling  hillow, 

And  bear  him  o'er,  mid  ocean's  roar ; 
Thy  bosom  be  the  sailor's  pillow. 

£  And  safely  land,  along  the  strand, 
Where  angry  waves  are  vainly  swelling  ; 

His  sorrows  o'er,  to  seek,  once  more, 
Far  distant  home,  and  humble  dwelling. 


135 


Where  now,  beside  the  glassy  pride 
Of  Avon's  smoothly  flowing  river, 

Poor  Mary's  sighs,  that  often  rise, 
Mourn,  for  the  sailor,  lost  forever. 


Her  tear-drops  glide,  with  Avon's  tide, 
Fast  falling,  near  the  weeping  willow  ; 

Where  Zephyr  woo'd  the  tiny  flood, 
That  bore  thee,  first,  a  little  billow. 


